What else are you going to do the day after you have been to see a collection of sea creatures but go and see more animals?
Disney's Animal Kingdom was next on the agenda. It's becoming sketchy if I'm honest. I knew I should have taken a notepad with me, but then I draw enough attention to myself already without being that geeky. What I do remember is that the first thing we did at Animal Kingdom was get on the safari vehicle.
In the process of doing so I learned something that would be valuable to me for the rest of the trip. How to queue without throwing things. Queues had been few and far between at Sea World. Maybe they'd all gone to Ellesmere Port, I don't know. They were out in force at Animal Kingdom though, with a sign outside advising us that it would be 20 minutes before we would actually get on to the safari. Well, we had all day.
It's not just the queues, but the way one queues that is significant here. Rather than have one long line stretching all the way back to Japan (which I'm sure was just over by the Rhinos, but I might be getting confused), they cunningly get you to line up around snake-like railings. This creates the illusion that you are making progress when in fact you are merely moving through a series of rooms or corridors. Credit to them, they try to distract you from your impatience with interesting decor and perhaps the odd DVD, but they're making you wait nonetheless.
Finally on board the jeep I quickly noticed that all staff in the safari area where called Dan, Danny, Daniel or any other denominations of that name you can think of;
"Danny!" shouted Dan,
"Tell Daniel to take my name off the board!"
I don't know what this means exactly, but I'll be surprised if it made a difference for the board to lose any of it's Dans, Dannys or Daniels. Danny nodded anyway.
Anyway, Dan was our driver. He showed us all the things we had come to see, and quite a few we had not expected. In among the elephants, giraffe, lions, rhinos and bongos (there's always bongos at zoos and safari parks, don't you find?) were some rather less authentic creatures. Dan had been advised through his radio system that there were poachers in the area, and they were after the elephants. Apparently, ivory is worth a few bob. To prove this they had mocked up an entire poachers camp, and a mechanically controlled baby elephant hiding in a small jeep. Not to mention the voice of our informant, who also had us wait five minutes to allow time for an ostrich to move out of the road. I caught sight of it a while later, hurtling towards our jeep lest we make a play for it's eggs. Emma didn't think the eggs were real though.
Anybody who hasn't seen A Bugs Life might not be able to relate to what we did next. We visited a 3-D show based on the animated film, and I learned something else. If you use a wheelchair, get out of it at 3-D shows if you possibly can. I made the mistake of seeing this show from my own chair, and missed out on the simulation of being swatted at by a bug hell-bent on revenge for the loss of it's kin to the human race in this way. A huge waft of air came through the back of Emma's chair as the swatter swished narrowly by, and it was only when we left the theatre that I noticed that the seats all had small, strategically placed holes in their backs.
However, I am happy to report that I did witness Hopper (a giant grasshopper voiced by Kevin Spacey when he's not talking about the Old Vic) zoom into my face, pointing furiously at me for decimating the bug population with a rolled up Sunday Times. Or something. This may have been an attempt to educate serial bug squashers, but I don't have enough faith in humanity to believe that the insect death toll will fall as a result. I was also fortunate enough to be able to feel the blast of wind in my face when the enormous, fat purple bug let one go, so to speak, and to get just as wet as everyone else when a spider exploded or soiled itself. Lovely.
After that it was on to another theatre for a stage version of Finding Nemo. It was all very entertaining, yet I can't help but feel that the highlight was at the end when the seagulls famous for crying 'mine, mine, mine' in the film, changed the call to 'bye, bye, bye' when they wanted to boot you out of your seat at the end. Actually there is some very clever puppetry in the performance, along with some lung-busting singing. Just don't expect the same level of humour. They've only got half an hour to tell the story. A similar principle allows me to describe a day out which lasted around 10 hours to you in just one blog.
And the rest...........? Well, it's a zoo. You've all been to Chester. Just imagine that with searingly hot weather. And rollercoasters. Difficult, I know.
Sunday, 13 June 2010
Friday, 11 June 2010
Bon Jovi
Sorry to interrupt the Orlando story but I feel the need to write this while it is fresh in the memory. For those of you strange enough to be wondering, the Orlando story will continue next time I find myself at a keyboard with an hour to kill. The World Cup is not helping, nor will my impending return to work.
Before we proceed I have to take you on a short detour. My blue badge has expired. In case you didn't know, a blue badge is a permit which allows you to park in designated disabled parking areas. The thought occurs to me that my disability is unlikely to expire, so it seems a little odd that my permit for disabled parking access should expire. Do the powers that be think I'm taking the piss? Just having a rest am I? 'Sit down with a pack of ginger nuts and a nice cup of tea and your legs will be strong enough to carry you before you know it young man.'
Fuckwits.
Anyway, in order to renew one's disability, a trip to the Council offices is required. So too are recent passport photographs (if you don't believe I'm disabled, have a look at them!), and a fee of two English pounds. A cynic would suggest that this is why blue badges are subject to renewal. They know full well I haven't been rehabilitated since the last issue, but they are damned if I'm getting away with the £2. I don't know if rehabilitated is the right word. Makes me sound like a serial killer.
So the woman dealing with my application (yes, there is a form) asks to see a letter confirming my receipt of Disability Living Allowance. I don't have a recent one so I have taken along one from two or three years ago. I was as disabled then as I am now (perhaps more so if you ask the right people), so I thought it would suffice. The woman is not so sure;
'I'll send it up to them for you but I don't know if they'll do it without another letter' she tells me.
You can just imagine 'them' can't you? Bureaucrats bound by the limits of their 'procedures', forced to leave their common sense at the door each morning. I am far from sure that I will get my blue badge renewed without another letter or visit to the Benefits Agency, the trauma of which is a whole new blog considering that I work for a living. Perhaps it is just me but I'm convinced whenever I go in there that everyone assumes I'm a dole bum just like they are. See, I'm even doing it myself now.
And so to Bon Jovi. We always stay overnight on these occasions, so we booked into the Custom House hotel. It's a quaint little place, with rooms cold enough to remind you that you are back in England if you have been away. For that extra authenticity it has an inaccesible cafe, which is all out of jacket potatoes sorry, but here's a cheese and ham toastie for a fiver. Will that do? It had to.
We needed to get the train to the O2. I was apprehensive about this because Emma never stops complaining about the inaccessibility of the London rail network. Being from the South East she has some experience in that part of the country (England's toilet, if you will), and to say she doesn't rate it would be something akin to suggesting that Wayne Bridge doesn't like John Terry. However I am happy to report that we managed to take the not one but two trains necessary to get to the venue, and to do so without any assistance from dullard rail workers. If anything, my experience of London's railways tells me that they could teach a thing or two to my friends at Thatto Heath and Lime Street.
Safely in our seats with our £4.30 drinks, we were entertained for a while by The Velvet Hearts. If like me you had not heard of them I can describe them as a soft rock act, but rather more understated than Bon Jovi. They have a pretty boy, muscle bound backing singer who wears a sharp black jacket and tee-shirt combo, with jeans. His tan is probably fake but is dazzling nonetheless. Despite his appearance, I couldn't help but liken him to Bez in the Happy Mondays, such was his lack of contribution and synchronisity to the others in the band. I'm afraid I can't recommend The Velvet Hearts any more than I can recommend Gary Go in support of Take That. What? I've told you, I'm travelling with a woman.
Eventually Jon, Richie and co arrived on stage in the expected Blaze Of Glory. That pun is intentionally crap, as it leads me on tenuously to my one beef about the evening's entertainment. Actually, it's quite a large beef. There were far too many of the band's well known songs, including the aforementioned movie soundtrack ditty, which were left on the shelf. I can understand the need to promote their new material (which is like the old material, but the chords are in a different order and the words are different, but hey if it ain't broke.......), but I think you'd like to have something to sing along to at a gig like this. They didn't even do Always, which I remarked to Emma was a bit like Robbie Williams not doing Angels. She replied that she wouldn't give a shite if Robbie had never sung Angels.
Maybe because it is a new era, or maybe because this was not a stadium gig, the patrons were not quite as I'd expected. There was a distinct lack of the long-haired, ageing denim wearers of my imagination, and instead they were replaced by an audience of all ages, very few of whom broke out of slight body movement and rhythmic clapping. Headbanging and stage-diving were not in effect. Bon Jovi are no longer a rock band. But then we knew that. Pop will always make you more dough than rock, and Jon knows this.
We drunkenly navigated our way back to the hotel thanks to an overly loud conversation I had with a woman called Natalie, and two equally lost and nameless northern folk. Somehow Emma arrived in our room some time before me and as I knocked on the door there was an awful moment when I thought she had fallen asleep and that I would be sleeping in the corridor. Whilst waiting I noticed that there was an awful lot of noise coming from the room next door. I do not wish to expand on that at this point.
The journey home was tortuous. It took two hours to travel just over 50 miles because of the jams, and I missed the opening match of the World Cup entirely, despite our leaving the hotel at 11.00am. In all it took six hours to travel the 220 miles or so back home, and the journey presented more than it's fair share of moments in which the will to live seemed to be evaporating. As consolation we stocked up on junk food, whereupon Emma promptly fell asleep leaving me to get on with the football-watching.
Oh, and if you are wondering about the encore...... Living On A Prayer, obviously.
Before we proceed I have to take you on a short detour. My blue badge has expired. In case you didn't know, a blue badge is a permit which allows you to park in designated disabled parking areas. The thought occurs to me that my disability is unlikely to expire, so it seems a little odd that my permit for disabled parking access should expire. Do the powers that be think I'm taking the piss? Just having a rest am I? 'Sit down with a pack of ginger nuts and a nice cup of tea and your legs will be strong enough to carry you before you know it young man.'
Fuckwits.
Anyway, in order to renew one's disability, a trip to the Council offices is required. So too are recent passport photographs (if you don't believe I'm disabled, have a look at them!), and a fee of two English pounds. A cynic would suggest that this is why blue badges are subject to renewal. They know full well I haven't been rehabilitated since the last issue, but they are damned if I'm getting away with the £2. I don't know if rehabilitated is the right word. Makes me sound like a serial killer.
So the woman dealing with my application (yes, there is a form) asks to see a letter confirming my receipt of Disability Living Allowance. I don't have a recent one so I have taken along one from two or three years ago. I was as disabled then as I am now (perhaps more so if you ask the right people), so I thought it would suffice. The woman is not so sure;
'I'll send it up to them for you but I don't know if they'll do it without another letter' she tells me.
You can just imagine 'them' can't you? Bureaucrats bound by the limits of their 'procedures', forced to leave their common sense at the door each morning. I am far from sure that I will get my blue badge renewed without another letter or visit to the Benefits Agency, the trauma of which is a whole new blog considering that I work for a living. Perhaps it is just me but I'm convinced whenever I go in there that everyone assumes I'm a dole bum just like they are. See, I'm even doing it myself now.
And so to Bon Jovi. We always stay overnight on these occasions, so we booked into the Custom House hotel. It's a quaint little place, with rooms cold enough to remind you that you are back in England if you have been away. For that extra authenticity it has an inaccesible cafe, which is all out of jacket potatoes sorry, but here's a cheese and ham toastie for a fiver. Will that do? It had to.
We needed to get the train to the O2. I was apprehensive about this because Emma never stops complaining about the inaccessibility of the London rail network. Being from the South East she has some experience in that part of the country (England's toilet, if you will), and to say she doesn't rate it would be something akin to suggesting that Wayne Bridge doesn't like John Terry. However I am happy to report that we managed to take the not one but two trains necessary to get to the venue, and to do so without any assistance from dullard rail workers. If anything, my experience of London's railways tells me that they could teach a thing or two to my friends at Thatto Heath and Lime Street.
Safely in our seats with our £4.30 drinks, we were entertained for a while by The Velvet Hearts. If like me you had not heard of them I can describe them as a soft rock act, but rather more understated than Bon Jovi. They have a pretty boy, muscle bound backing singer who wears a sharp black jacket and tee-shirt combo, with jeans. His tan is probably fake but is dazzling nonetheless. Despite his appearance, I couldn't help but liken him to Bez in the Happy Mondays, such was his lack of contribution and synchronisity to the others in the band. I'm afraid I can't recommend The Velvet Hearts any more than I can recommend Gary Go in support of Take That. What? I've told you, I'm travelling with a woman.
Eventually Jon, Richie and co arrived on stage in the expected Blaze Of Glory. That pun is intentionally crap, as it leads me on tenuously to my one beef about the evening's entertainment. Actually, it's quite a large beef. There were far too many of the band's well known songs, including the aforementioned movie soundtrack ditty, which were left on the shelf. I can understand the need to promote their new material (which is like the old material, but the chords are in a different order and the words are different, but hey if it ain't broke.......), but I think you'd like to have something to sing along to at a gig like this. They didn't even do Always, which I remarked to Emma was a bit like Robbie Williams not doing Angels. She replied that she wouldn't give a shite if Robbie had never sung Angels.
Maybe because it is a new era, or maybe because this was not a stadium gig, the patrons were not quite as I'd expected. There was a distinct lack of the long-haired, ageing denim wearers of my imagination, and instead they were replaced by an audience of all ages, very few of whom broke out of slight body movement and rhythmic clapping. Headbanging and stage-diving were not in effect. Bon Jovi are no longer a rock band. But then we knew that. Pop will always make you more dough than rock, and Jon knows this.
We drunkenly navigated our way back to the hotel thanks to an overly loud conversation I had with a woman called Natalie, and two equally lost and nameless northern folk. Somehow Emma arrived in our room some time before me and as I knocked on the door there was an awful moment when I thought she had fallen asleep and that I would be sleeping in the corridor. Whilst waiting I noticed that there was an awful lot of noise coming from the room next door. I do not wish to expand on that at this point.
The journey home was tortuous. It took two hours to travel just over 50 miles because of the jams, and I missed the opening match of the World Cup entirely, despite our leaving the hotel at 11.00am. In all it took six hours to travel the 220 miles or so back home, and the journey presented more than it's fair share of moments in which the will to live seemed to be evaporating. As consolation we stocked up on junk food, whereupon Emma promptly fell asleep leaving me to get on with the football-watching.
Oh, and if you are wondering about the encore...... Living On A Prayer, obviously.
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
Orlando - Episode II
Sea World
If I thought clambering into the car was acrobatic, I hadn't seen anything yet. The first morning of our stay we decided, for no other reason than Emma's mum suggested it off the top of her head, to visit Sea World.
Now I am sure that not so long ago this would have been a unique experience. Clearly Orlando leads the way in this kind of thing, but by now it is by no means the only place where you can see the full range of sea creatures without getting even a little damp. Only two years ago we were in Lorro Park in Tenerife watching two enormous killer whales perform leaps and gyrations from a distance Robert Shaw would have balked at (ok so that was a man-eating, rubber shark but you take my point). As close by as Ellesmere Port you can look upwards from an enclosed walkway and see some fairly sizeable sharks devouring an unfortunate squid.
None of which is to say that I did not enjoy the experience. I'd never seen Beluga Whales up close before, nor a polar bear. Albeit a sleeping polar bear. Certain people in our party had suggested that the polar bear would not be real and so decided not to visit the section to find out. I couldn't comprehend the pointlessness of exhibiting a fake polar bear and so took a leap of faith. I can confirm that it was real, even if it was about as likely to move in public as the Queen's bowels. In all honesty it probably does not enjoy the confinement relative to the freedom of the wild, but it was an awesome sight nonetheless.
Traditionally, and as with any of the other Sea Life Centres I know of, Sea World's centrepiece attraction is it's Killer Whale shows. 'Shamu Rocks America' the T-shirts proclaim, and again without trying to poo-poo your poo-poo it seems that this is something of an exaggeration. Shamu does not so much rock America as cause it to endure a steady ripple.
The show was understated in comparison to even that at Tenerife, with leaps and gyrations in shorter supply. This may well be linked to the recent deaths of handlers unfortunate enough to have got into the water with a Killer Whale having a bad day. Seems reasonable. To compensate the handlers are the new acrobats, dressing up in bright, sparkly costumes to perform death defying leaps and twirls, but at a safe distance from grumpy old Shamu and company. It's still magnificently entertaining, and a good deal more impressive than a biff getting into a hired car with the aid of a stategically placed handle.
Staying with the watery theme it was here that I experienced my first taste of the erratic Orlando weather. Emma and I were on our way back to meet the others (who had long since given up) when the bright blue sky turned grey and the heavens opened. I have never seen rain come down that fast. Stalls were hurriedly disassembled, shelter desperately sought. We ended up near a cafe with a covered forecourt, along with what seemed like 90% of the people who had visited the park that day. Any young lady caught in the downpour for more than a few seconds quickly replaced Shamu as the main attraction. The deluge lasted for around half an hour, but such is the heat of the sun when it reappears that it could not have been out for more than ten minutes before everything dried up again.
The obligatory mug safely purchased and packaged, we moved on to the next adventure.
If I thought clambering into the car was acrobatic, I hadn't seen anything yet. The first morning of our stay we decided, for no other reason than Emma's mum suggested it off the top of her head, to visit Sea World.
Now I am sure that not so long ago this would have been a unique experience. Clearly Orlando leads the way in this kind of thing, but by now it is by no means the only place where you can see the full range of sea creatures without getting even a little damp. Only two years ago we were in Lorro Park in Tenerife watching two enormous killer whales perform leaps and gyrations from a distance Robert Shaw would have balked at (ok so that was a man-eating, rubber shark but you take my point). As close by as Ellesmere Port you can look upwards from an enclosed walkway and see some fairly sizeable sharks devouring an unfortunate squid.
None of which is to say that I did not enjoy the experience. I'd never seen Beluga Whales up close before, nor a polar bear. Albeit a sleeping polar bear. Certain people in our party had suggested that the polar bear would not be real and so decided not to visit the section to find out. I couldn't comprehend the pointlessness of exhibiting a fake polar bear and so took a leap of faith. I can confirm that it was real, even if it was about as likely to move in public as the Queen's bowels. In all honesty it probably does not enjoy the confinement relative to the freedom of the wild, but it was an awesome sight nonetheless.
Traditionally, and as with any of the other Sea Life Centres I know of, Sea World's centrepiece attraction is it's Killer Whale shows. 'Shamu Rocks America' the T-shirts proclaim, and again without trying to poo-poo your poo-poo it seems that this is something of an exaggeration. Shamu does not so much rock America as cause it to endure a steady ripple.
The show was understated in comparison to even that at Tenerife, with leaps and gyrations in shorter supply. This may well be linked to the recent deaths of handlers unfortunate enough to have got into the water with a Killer Whale having a bad day. Seems reasonable. To compensate the handlers are the new acrobats, dressing up in bright, sparkly costumes to perform death defying leaps and twirls, but at a safe distance from grumpy old Shamu and company. It's still magnificently entertaining, and a good deal more impressive than a biff getting into a hired car with the aid of a stategically placed handle.
Staying with the watery theme it was here that I experienced my first taste of the erratic Orlando weather. Emma and I were on our way back to meet the others (who had long since given up) when the bright blue sky turned grey and the heavens opened. I have never seen rain come down that fast. Stalls were hurriedly disassembled, shelter desperately sought. We ended up near a cafe with a covered forecourt, along with what seemed like 90% of the people who had visited the park that day. Any young lady caught in the downpour for more than a few seconds quickly replaced Shamu as the main attraction. The deluge lasted for around half an hour, but such is the heat of the sun when it reappears that it could not have been out for more than ten minutes before everything dried up again.
The obligatory mug safely purchased and packaged, we moved on to the next adventure.
Tuesday, 8 June 2010
Orlando Bloom
Right, now that title has conned at least 30 beautiful women (and you) into reading my work I can begin the real business of describing my recent trip to Florida.
I don't think I can take on this task with just one blog. Rather like America itself, the story is just too big for it's own good and so I've decided to break it down. It seems logical to take events in chronological order, so we are going to start with............
The Journey
There are always hiccoughs, cock-ups and balls-ups before any aviation ups when I visit an airport. This occasion was no different. To begin with the mini-bus driver charged us £5 more than was agreed for the ride to the airport, destroying any hope he had of a tip in the process. I noted darkly that he was from Wigan. I'll leave it there. Then there was the failure of the online check-in system to check people in online. The machine steadfastly, almost heroically refused to print out a boarding card, instead advising us to join the queue to obtain one in the traditional manner. It might just aswell have promised to dispense $50 notes or ice cold beer. Clearly it was a Liberal Democrat.
All of which is only slightly less of a stigma than being a shoe bomber, which is possibly what they thought Emma might be when they singled her out for a random search before boarding. I remain puzzled by the purpose of randomly asking passengers to remove their shoes for a more thorough search. Just because Emma hasn't got explosives in her trainers doesn't mean that Al-Ahly-Mahmoud-Hassan at the back of the queue hasn't. I was almost sure Emma hadn't anyway, but I suppose you never really know people.
The flight itself was agreeable, almost pleasant. If you have music and a book and are within reasonable distance of a toilet (fellow wheelchair users will know what I mean) then eight hours and 20 minutes isn't all that long. Having chosen to fly with Virgin Atlantic, we did have to put up with Branson delivering a smugly recorded screen message thanking us for lining his pockets and wishing us an enjoyable flight. Mercifully he quickly buggered off to run another marathon or buy another island.
Along with the music and the literature I watched a film called Invictus. Regular readers will know that I detest rugby union with every sinew of my being, yet this in itself did not prevent me from being mildly engaged by the film. It's more about Nelson Mandella and the political climate in South Africa post-apartheid than it is about another bloody successful penalty goal, although the climactic rugby action scenes are laughable in a way that would make Escape To Victory's director blush.
Before you land in the USA you have to complete one of their VISA cards. Not a credit card for buying things you can't afford and thus destroying the global economy, but a small green card recording a few personal details to pacify the immigration people. The airline staff can't stress often enough how important it is to fill this in correctly if you want to be granted entry into the USA, and so it was with some predictability that one of us filled it in incorrectly. It happened to be Emma, but it could just as easily have been me who realised too late that there was not enough space for the words 'United Kingdom' in the box enquiring as to your country of residence. New card issued, the stewardess wearily advised us to 'just put England'.
The same stewardess then made the unfortunate mistake of talking to me about wheelchair access on aircrafts when we were waiting for my wheelchair to be brought up from the hold. Yawning slightly, my ears only pricked up when she told me that her husband was himself a wheelchair user. While not exactly Helen of Troy, she had the classic air stewardess look, leaving me wondering how many millions her husband had been paid after his accident. I think about this sort of thing a lot when my eyes are half shut in the bathroom at 7.00 on a Monday morning, and will think about it even more should I ever find myself requiring new employment. If you want to make money (and therefore hump stewardesses) out of disability, don't be born with it. Ok?
On arrival in Orlando (see, I knew we'd get there in less than 2,000 words) we then had to negotiate the complex baggage reclaim system. Immigration were satisfied with our form-filling efforts, but still took the time to fingerprint and photograph each of us before they would allow us anywhere near our suitcases. When we did reach the carousel we obviously couldn't find our luggage, which it turned out had not quite managed to find it's way off the plane at that point. When it came around, only two of our three cases (what? I'm travelling with a woman) were on the designated carousel. The location of the third may have remained a mystery for all eternity had Emma not noticed during a trip to the ladies that a nearby carousel had stopped moving with only around three cases remaning on it. One of them was ours. Don't ask because I don't know.
Baggage claimed, we thought we were clear for departure to the holiday villa. Not so. We came to a staircase, which is never a good situation for me, and were told that if we could not carry our luggage up the stairs (hello!, I can't even get myself up there!) then we would have to leave it with yet more baggage handling staff and reclaim it at yet another carousel. It could not be taken in the lift (elevator, whatever), nor on the subsequent monorail we had to take to what we soon discovered was the real airport exit. Monorails were to become a feature of this trip, but for now we located our luggage (all on one carousel this time) and advanced.
We had arranged to meet Emma's family at the car hire desk. The plan was for Emma's dad to hire a car and drive us around. The villa was around 20 minutes from most of the parks and attractions, so it made sense. Unfortunately their flight from Chicago (they had been staying in Wisconsin with a friend. I know, Chicago is in Illinois) had been delayed. An amusing 20 minutes was passed listening to and watching a woman trying to leave a message on her answering machine covering the duration of her holiday. She must have done it 17 times, shaking her head more with each failed attempt. She should try checking into an airport online.
An hour or so later Emma's family had arrived and were ready to go, and I faced one more challenge. The car we hired needed to be big to allow for all the luggage. The problem with big cars tends to be that they are tall aswell as spacious. All of which meant that I spent a farcical five minutes trying to get into the back seat, before deciding that I could not, and instead climbing into the front. The manufacturer had kindly and cleverly placed a handle just above the door which allowed me to pull myself in. Had it not been for that I would have continued to look like Mini-Me trying to climb up Beyonce's leg, or worse still been left to spend the fortnight at the airport with it's multitude of carousels and lifts/elevators.
And the woman with the voicemail problems.
I don't think I can take on this task with just one blog. Rather like America itself, the story is just too big for it's own good and so I've decided to break it down. It seems logical to take events in chronological order, so we are going to start with............
The Journey
There are always hiccoughs, cock-ups and balls-ups before any aviation ups when I visit an airport. This occasion was no different. To begin with the mini-bus driver charged us £5 more than was agreed for the ride to the airport, destroying any hope he had of a tip in the process. I noted darkly that he was from Wigan. I'll leave it there. Then there was the failure of the online check-in system to check people in online. The machine steadfastly, almost heroically refused to print out a boarding card, instead advising us to join the queue to obtain one in the traditional manner. It might just aswell have promised to dispense $50 notes or ice cold beer. Clearly it was a Liberal Democrat.
All of which is only slightly less of a stigma than being a shoe bomber, which is possibly what they thought Emma might be when they singled her out for a random search before boarding. I remain puzzled by the purpose of randomly asking passengers to remove their shoes for a more thorough search. Just because Emma hasn't got explosives in her trainers doesn't mean that Al-Ahly-Mahmoud-Hassan at the back of the queue hasn't. I was almost sure Emma hadn't anyway, but I suppose you never really know people.
The flight itself was agreeable, almost pleasant. If you have music and a book and are within reasonable distance of a toilet (fellow wheelchair users will know what I mean) then eight hours and 20 minutes isn't all that long. Having chosen to fly with Virgin Atlantic, we did have to put up with Branson delivering a smugly recorded screen message thanking us for lining his pockets and wishing us an enjoyable flight. Mercifully he quickly buggered off to run another marathon or buy another island.
Along with the music and the literature I watched a film called Invictus. Regular readers will know that I detest rugby union with every sinew of my being, yet this in itself did not prevent me from being mildly engaged by the film. It's more about Nelson Mandella and the political climate in South Africa post-apartheid than it is about another bloody successful penalty goal, although the climactic rugby action scenes are laughable in a way that would make Escape To Victory's director blush.
Before you land in the USA you have to complete one of their VISA cards. Not a credit card for buying things you can't afford and thus destroying the global economy, but a small green card recording a few personal details to pacify the immigration people. The airline staff can't stress often enough how important it is to fill this in correctly if you want to be granted entry into the USA, and so it was with some predictability that one of us filled it in incorrectly. It happened to be Emma, but it could just as easily have been me who realised too late that there was not enough space for the words 'United Kingdom' in the box enquiring as to your country of residence. New card issued, the stewardess wearily advised us to 'just put England'.
The same stewardess then made the unfortunate mistake of talking to me about wheelchair access on aircrafts when we were waiting for my wheelchair to be brought up from the hold. Yawning slightly, my ears only pricked up when she told me that her husband was himself a wheelchair user. While not exactly Helen of Troy, she had the classic air stewardess look, leaving me wondering how many millions her husband had been paid after his accident. I think about this sort of thing a lot when my eyes are half shut in the bathroom at 7.00 on a Monday morning, and will think about it even more should I ever find myself requiring new employment. If you want to make money (and therefore hump stewardesses) out of disability, don't be born with it. Ok?
On arrival in Orlando (see, I knew we'd get there in less than 2,000 words) we then had to negotiate the complex baggage reclaim system. Immigration were satisfied with our form-filling efforts, but still took the time to fingerprint and photograph each of us before they would allow us anywhere near our suitcases. When we did reach the carousel we obviously couldn't find our luggage, which it turned out had not quite managed to find it's way off the plane at that point. When it came around, only two of our three cases (what? I'm travelling with a woman) were on the designated carousel. The location of the third may have remained a mystery for all eternity had Emma not noticed during a trip to the ladies that a nearby carousel had stopped moving with only around three cases remaning on it. One of them was ours. Don't ask because I don't know.
Baggage claimed, we thought we were clear for departure to the holiday villa. Not so. We came to a staircase, which is never a good situation for me, and were told that if we could not carry our luggage up the stairs (hello!, I can't even get myself up there!) then we would have to leave it with yet more baggage handling staff and reclaim it at yet another carousel. It could not be taken in the lift (elevator, whatever), nor on the subsequent monorail we had to take to what we soon discovered was the real airport exit. Monorails were to become a feature of this trip, but for now we located our luggage (all on one carousel this time) and advanced.
We had arranged to meet Emma's family at the car hire desk. The plan was for Emma's dad to hire a car and drive us around. The villa was around 20 minutes from most of the parks and attractions, so it made sense. Unfortunately their flight from Chicago (they had been staying in Wisconsin with a friend. I know, Chicago is in Illinois) had been delayed. An amusing 20 minutes was passed listening to and watching a woman trying to leave a message on her answering machine covering the duration of her holiday. She must have done it 17 times, shaking her head more with each failed attempt. She should try checking into an airport online.
An hour or so later Emma's family had arrived and were ready to go, and I faced one more challenge. The car we hired needed to be big to allow for all the luggage. The problem with big cars tends to be that they are tall aswell as spacious. All of which meant that I spent a farcical five minutes trying to get into the back seat, before deciding that I could not, and instead climbing into the front. The manufacturer had kindly and cleverly placed a handle just above the door which allowed me to pull myself in. Had it not been for that I would have continued to look like Mini-Me trying to climb up Beyonce's leg, or worse still been left to spend the fortnight at the airport with it's multitude of carousels and lifts/elevators.
And the woman with the voicemail problems.
Friday, 14 May 2010
Pharmacy Farce
Pharmacy Farce
There is a line in the Coen Brothers' excellent 'Burn After Reading' which came to mind today after a quite tortuous visit to Boots the chemist.
'These are exactly the kind of fucking morons I have been fighting against all my life" says John Malkovic's character at the end of an epic and soul destroying pursuit of two leisure centre workers who had somehow come into possession of Malkovic's highly sensitive government information.
All of which seems a fair way away from any visit to Boots. Yes, it is a stretch in literal terms, but read on and you will soon discover how easy it is to have one's spirit crushed by morons.
I didn't even get out of the car, yet by the end I was left feeling like I had not only been dragged through a hedge backwards, but by the larger of my testicles.
As both my regular readers will know I am ill. With this in mind Emma kindly offered to go into the chemist for me to pick up my monthly order of prescriptions. If I lived in Scotland where prescriptions are free, my monthly requirements might just make them think again about that particular policy. They'd be losing a fortune. The amount of shite I now need from the chemist every four weeks is staggering, and far too exhaustive to bore you with here.
But here's the thing. Every month we go and every month they tell us they cannot dispense the items without first changing the way my prescriptions are ordered by my local doctor. If we go with a prescription for all of the items we are told that they cannot be dispensed. If we arrive with a separate prescription for each item we are informed that they cannot be dispensed. And then they dispense them anyway, but not until you have spent half your evening pointing out to them that you have been told that you can't have them either way. I think it is a test of character. If it is, I'm failing it.
'Are you sure you pay for your prescriptions?' they ask when we have finally signed a legally binding treaty.
'Yes. I work'.
A blank look. The moron cogs are turning, trying to figure out exactly how and why someone who hasn't even got the decency to be able to walk would want to venture out to work for a living. It baffles them in the same way that their policy on prescription dispensing baffles me. I'm exactly the kind of fucking moron they have been fighting against all their lives.
So back to today. It takes fully 45 minutes, and a return trip to the car for yet more evidence of my usual order (they've lost the original prescription, so how the feck do they know what I want or how I should go about getting it?) before we can leave. By this point I am experiencing the kind of kidney pain that would stop Judy Finnegan drinking for a fortnight, but worse than that my spirit is crushed. The inability of the UK's largest and most famous pharmacy to differentiate between items that are needed every month and those that are not is quite something.
Without ruining the end of 'Burn After Reading' for those who haven't seen it, there is bloodshed before the end. I haven't been tempted yet, but if I return to Boots in a month's time and am asked once more to speak to my doctor about my prescriptions then I refuse to be held responsible for my actions. I am a moron after all.
There is a line in the Coen Brothers' excellent 'Burn After Reading' which came to mind today after a quite tortuous visit to Boots the chemist.
'These are exactly the kind of fucking morons I have been fighting against all my life" says John Malkovic's character at the end of an epic and soul destroying pursuit of two leisure centre workers who had somehow come into possession of Malkovic's highly sensitive government information.
All of which seems a fair way away from any visit to Boots. Yes, it is a stretch in literal terms, but read on and you will soon discover how easy it is to have one's spirit crushed by morons.
I didn't even get out of the car, yet by the end I was left feeling like I had not only been dragged through a hedge backwards, but by the larger of my testicles.
As both my regular readers will know I am ill. With this in mind Emma kindly offered to go into the chemist for me to pick up my monthly order of prescriptions. If I lived in Scotland where prescriptions are free, my monthly requirements might just make them think again about that particular policy. They'd be losing a fortune. The amount of shite I now need from the chemist every four weeks is staggering, and far too exhaustive to bore you with here.
But here's the thing. Every month we go and every month they tell us they cannot dispense the items without first changing the way my prescriptions are ordered by my local doctor. If we go with a prescription for all of the items we are told that they cannot be dispensed. If we arrive with a separate prescription for each item we are informed that they cannot be dispensed. And then they dispense them anyway, but not until you have spent half your evening pointing out to them that you have been told that you can't have them either way. I think it is a test of character. If it is, I'm failing it.
'Are you sure you pay for your prescriptions?' they ask when we have finally signed a legally binding treaty.
'Yes. I work'.
A blank look. The moron cogs are turning, trying to figure out exactly how and why someone who hasn't even got the decency to be able to walk would want to venture out to work for a living. It baffles them in the same way that their policy on prescription dispensing baffles me. I'm exactly the kind of fucking moron they have been fighting against all their lives.
So back to today. It takes fully 45 minutes, and a return trip to the car for yet more evidence of my usual order (they've lost the original prescription, so how the feck do they know what I want or how I should go about getting it?) before we can leave. By this point I am experiencing the kind of kidney pain that would stop Judy Finnegan drinking for a fortnight, but worse than that my spirit is crushed. The inability of the UK's largest and most famous pharmacy to differentiate between items that are needed every month and those that are not is quite something.
Without ruining the end of 'Burn After Reading' for those who haven't seen it, there is bloodshed before the end. I haven't been tempted yet, but if I return to Boots in a month's time and am asked once more to speak to my doctor about my prescriptions then I refuse to be held responsible for my actions. I am a moron after all.
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Sick
I'm ill.
Now I realise that is not the most upbeat start to a column (see, I'm not even entertaining that other word now) but my ramblings are nothing if not honest and to the point.
The gory details first. I have a urinary tract infection. This is quite common among the biff community, but is no less agonising for all that. We are prone to this type of thing, although I had been quite lucky up until last year. Eventually your luck runs out, and so now I am on enough anti-biotics and pain-killers to bring down a herd of mammoths.
At times the pain is indescribable to someone who has never suffered from an infection of this kind. The best I can do is to get you to imagine being stabbed repeatedly in one side (without the obvious instant damage to the internal organs which would ensue. No, far better to drag it out). This is then followed by or interspersed with a feeling of being punched repeatedly in the back (around the kidney area) by Floyd Mayweather's stronger but less subtle brother. At times the pain-killers don't touch the problem, while at others it takes barely half an hour for the relief to come flooding through. You figure it out, because I can't.
It doesn't help when the original medication you were prescribed makes you sick. Much of Tuesday morning between the hours of about 4.30-8.30 were spent rolfing royally into the toilet (miraculously failing to wake Emma), and yet managing not to feel any less sick. It was a bit like the verbal diaorrhea from which David Cameron suffers. It doesn't matter how much he spews out, there is always more.
Medication successfully changed (Emma had to take a day off work as any effort pick up my own prescription would have ended in certain death), I was now mercifully rolf-free. Cleverly, vindictevely, the pain even took a break through most of Wednesday. This devious criminal mastermind persuaded me that it would be safe to return to work on Thursday, and then pounced once more on it's victim. This morning was spent bent double in front of my desk like a recently befallen Italian footballer, while two Ibuprofens later I was visited by a deep-rooted conviction that I was again going to splurge a pretty pattern, only this time over my desk. It could have been the cheese and onion sandwich I ate for lunch, or it could have been the chocolate or the crisps. You decide.
At the moment there is calm once more. But then I haven't eaten since lunchtime (even turning down free cake at work) and it is now 8.52pm. The question of whether to go to work in the morning offers something of a dilemma. If I am ok between now and 7.00 tomorrow morning I will find it hard to justify taking another day off sick. But then when I get there I am vulnerable to the kind of attacks experienced today.
All of this no doubt stems from kidney problems caused by my outright refusal to look after said organs as a youth. Twelve pints of lager on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday is inadvisable for someone so prone to kidney defects (the biff factor again). Even now, as soon as my current course of anti-biotics is over I will be piling Budweiser down my neck as if it is the antidote to my recently earned snake bite. I never learn, but then learning would make life an awful lot more dull.
Who wants to live forever? Not me. Not with a bloody urinary tract infection anyway.
Now I realise that is not the most upbeat start to a column (see, I'm not even entertaining that other word now) but my ramblings are nothing if not honest and to the point.
The gory details first. I have a urinary tract infection. This is quite common among the biff community, but is no less agonising for all that. We are prone to this type of thing, although I had been quite lucky up until last year. Eventually your luck runs out, and so now I am on enough anti-biotics and pain-killers to bring down a herd of mammoths.
At times the pain is indescribable to someone who has never suffered from an infection of this kind. The best I can do is to get you to imagine being stabbed repeatedly in one side (without the obvious instant damage to the internal organs which would ensue. No, far better to drag it out). This is then followed by or interspersed with a feeling of being punched repeatedly in the back (around the kidney area) by Floyd Mayweather's stronger but less subtle brother. At times the pain-killers don't touch the problem, while at others it takes barely half an hour for the relief to come flooding through. You figure it out, because I can't.
It doesn't help when the original medication you were prescribed makes you sick. Much of Tuesday morning between the hours of about 4.30-8.30 were spent rolfing royally into the toilet (miraculously failing to wake Emma), and yet managing not to feel any less sick. It was a bit like the verbal diaorrhea from which David Cameron suffers. It doesn't matter how much he spews out, there is always more.
Medication successfully changed (Emma had to take a day off work as any effort pick up my own prescription would have ended in certain death), I was now mercifully rolf-free. Cleverly, vindictevely, the pain even took a break through most of Wednesday. This devious criminal mastermind persuaded me that it would be safe to return to work on Thursday, and then pounced once more on it's victim. This morning was spent bent double in front of my desk like a recently befallen Italian footballer, while two Ibuprofens later I was visited by a deep-rooted conviction that I was again going to splurge a pretty pattern, only this time over my desk. It could have been the cheese and onion sandwich I ate for lunch, or it could have been the chocolate or the crisps. You decide.
At the moment there is calm once more. But then I haven't eaten since lunchtime (even turning down free cake at work) and it is now 8.52pm. The question of whether to go to work in the morning offers something of a dilemma. If I am ok between now and 7.00 tomorrow morning I will find it hard to justify taking another day off sick. But then when I get there I am vulnerable to the kind of attacks experienced today.
All of this no doubt stems from kidney problems caused by my outright refusal to look after said organs as a youth. Twelve pints of lager on a Thursday, Friday and Saturday is inadvisable for someone so prone to kidney defects (the biff factor again). Even now, as soon as my current course of anti-biotics is over I will be piling Budweiser down my neck as if it is the antidote to my recently earned snake bite. I never learn, but then learning would make life an awful lot more dull.
Who wants to live forever? Not me. Not with a bloody urinary tract infection anyway.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
A Huge Election
Yes that title is a double entendre. Well spotted.
So anyway today is a bit of a special day as it the day when the great, good and Russel Brand go to the polls to elect their new government. We only get this chance once every four or five years (even I don't care about By-Elections) so here's why it is so important that you cast your vote today.
Or should I say it is important that you 'did' cast your vote. It is 9.56pm as I write, and the aforementioned polls close in four minutes. At which point the counting will begin, the BBC will whip out it's trusty swingometer, and the race for Number 10 will really be on.
From chatting (possibly a little too heatedly at times) to friends it becomes clear that many people are unsure who to vote for. This could be because, as the author Will Self recently said, you can slide an anorexic cigarette paper between the two main parties in terms of their ideology. What you are left with therefore is a battle between personalities, which is terrifying given that we are now a nation of people who think nothing of sitting in front of our television every summer morning watching some publicity-hungry moron sleep.
But we're not talking tv, so let's drag this back to the plot. I'm trying not to think about the fact that the same people who made SuBo famous are charged with the responsibility of electing a new government. Unfathomably, I retain enough faith in humanity to think that people might actually take this seriously and will have considered their political position before voting.
Not that I am trying to sway anyone to vote one way or another. At the last count I had a readership of eight. This is hardly enough to write a political piece likely to change the result in any constituency. Even if I wanted to write a persuasive piece on this it would be a fruitless pursuit. It is now 10.10pm. The polls are closed and Jeremy Vine is telling me all about the Conservatives Battleground.
What I can tell you is that in my constituency the Labour Party is unbeaten in General Elections for 45 years. The current MP is one Shaun Woodward, a former Conservative MP who switched allegiances shortly after Blairism became cool, and is now Northern Ireland Secretary. He rarely visits St.Helens and has a personal assistant called William whose job it seems is to be as unhelpful as possible. Woodward was placed in St.Helens South simply because we were considered one of the few seats Labour had in which a former Tory would be tolerated. People here just vote Labour by and large, because they still beleive in social justice.
Not everyone, mind. I was staggered to learn earlier that no less than 12% of voters in St.Helens South voted Conservative at the 2005 General Election. This may not seem like a lot, but when you consider that 'Tory' is one of the more offensive terms in the local dialect it seems to grow in significance. I should very much like to know who these people are. It would be fascinating to get inside their heads and find out exactly why they would support Cameron and his ideals of savage cuts in public spending, more money if you get married and fuck the consequences and..............well that is just about the extent of his policies even at this late stage. What we do know is that he represents a party which wrecked industry in this and almost every other town in the 1980's, sent unemployment spiralling into the stratosphere, and spawned the kind of capitalism that has become the norm now even under a Labour government.
And so to the Lib Dems. Their leader Nick Clegg has been rightly praised for his performances in the recent television debates but to take that into account too much takes us back into SuBo territory. The truth is that Clegg can promise free chocolate, beer and sex on every street corner 24 hours a day because he knows that for now at least he is highly unlikely to have to implement his policies. Clegg is a nice chap, but he is an opportunist, feeding off the mistakes of his rivals and dragging disillusioned Labour/Tory voters with him. I doubt very much that he would be able to make good on his manifesto were he to defy the odds and be elected. Who is going to pay for his idea of not taxing people paid under a certain amount on the first £10,000 of their salary, for example?
For his part the Prime Minister has made mistakes, but there seems little doubt that his lack of popularity is down to his dour nature and peculiar facial tic rather than anything to do with policy. The economic downturn happened on his watch, but in truth it is a global problem and we should open our eyes to the fact that it was not Brown or Alistair Darling alone who created the problem. Labour's biggest mistake took place some years earlier when Tony Blair was premier, and took the unpopular, arrogant and very probably illegal step of going to war in Iraq without the necessary backing of the United Nations. Countless soldiers have died as a result of this decision, and we seem no nearer to achieving whatever ludicrous Endgame the former PM had in mind. That was over eight years ago. We're still there.
The BBC have just interviewed Bruce Forsyth, veteran presenter of Celebrity Reality TV Monster Strictly Come Dancing, for his predictions on what might happen. That they feel they need or should do so tells you much about how Joe Public's approach to politics has changed down the years.
Stand by for a hung parliament.
So anyway today is a bit of a special day as it the day when the great, good and Russel Brand go to the polls to elect their new government. We only get this chance once every four or five years (even I don't care about By-Elections) so here's why it is so important that you cast your vote today.
Or should I say it is important that you 'did' cast your vote. It is 9.56pm as I write, and the aforementioned polls close in four minutes. At which point the counting will begin, the BBC will whip out it's trusty swingometer, and the race for Number 10 will really be on.
From chatting (possibly a little too heatedly at times) to friends it becomes clear that many people are unsure who to vote for. This could be because, as the author Will Self recently said, you can slide an anorexic cigarette paper between the two main parties in terms of their ideology. What you are left with therefore is a battle between personalities, which is terrifying given that we are now a nation of people who think nothing of sitting in front of our television every summer morning watching some publicity-hungry moron sleep.
But we're not talking tv, so let's drag this back to the plot. I'm trying not to think about the fact that the same people who made SuBo famous are charged with the responsibility of electing a new government. Unfathomably, I retain enough faith in humanity to think that people might actually take this seriously and will have considered their political position before voting.
Not that I am trying to sway anyone to vote one way or another. At the last count I had a readership of eight. This is hardly enough to write a political piece likely to change the result in any constituency. Even if I wanted to write a persuasive piece on this it would be a fruitless pursuit. It is now 10.10pm. The polls are closed and Jeremy Vine is telling me all about the Conservatives Battleground.
What I can tell you is that in my constituency the Labour Party is unbeaten in General Elections for 45 years. The current MP is one Shaun Woodward, a former Conservative MP who switched allegiances shortly after Blairism became cool, and is now Northern Ireland Secretary. He rarely visits St.Helens and has a personal assistant called William whose job it seems is to be as unhelpful as possible. Woodward was placed in St.Helens South simply because we were considered one of the few seats Labour had in which a former Tory would be tolerated. People here just vote Labour by and large, because they still beleive in social justice.
Not everyone, mind. I was staggered to learn earlier that no less than 12% of voters in St.Helens South voted Conservative at the 2005 General Election. This may not seem like a lot, but when you consider that 'Tory' is one of the more offensive terms in the local dialect it seems to grow in significance. I should very much like to know who these people are. It would be fascinating to get inside their heads and find out exactly why they would support Cameron and his ideals of savage cuts in public spending, more money if you get married and fuck the consequences and..............well that is just about the extent of his policies even at this late stage. What we do know is that he represents a party which wrecked industry in this and almost every other town in the 1980's, sent unemployment spiralling into the stratosphere, and spawned the kind of capitalism that has become the norm now even under a Labour government.
And so to the Lib Dems. Their leader Nick Clegg has been rightly praised for his performances in the recent television debates but to take that into account too much takes us back into SuBo territory. The truth is that Clegg can promise free chocolate, beer and sex on every street corner 24 hours a day because he knows that for now at least he is highly unlikely to have to implement his policies. Clegg is a nice chap, but he is an opportunist, feeding off the mistakes of his rivals and dragging disillusioned Labour/Tory voters with him. I doubt very much that he would be able to make good on his manifesto were he to defy the odds and be elected. Who is going to pay for his idea of not taxing people paid under a certain amount on the first £10,000 of their salary, for example?
For his part the Prime Minister has made mistakes, but there seems little doubt that his lack of popularity is down to his dour nature and peculiar facial tic rather than anything to do with policy. The economic downturn happened on his watch, but in truth it is a global problem and we should open our eyes to the fact that it was not Brown or Alistair Darling alone who created the problem. Labour's biggest mistake took place some years earlier when Tony Blair was premier, and took the unpopular, arrogant and very probably illegal step of going to war in Iraq without the necessary backing of the United Nations. Countless soldiers have died as a result of this decision, and we seem no nearer to achieving whatever ludicrous Endgame the former PM had in mind. That was over eight years ago. We're still there.
The BBC have just interviewed Bruce Forsyth, veteran presenter of Celebrity Reality TV Monster Strictly Come Dancing, for his predictions on what might happen. That they feel they need or should do so tells you much about how Joe Public's approach to politics has changed down the years.
Stand by for a hung parliament.
Tuesday, 4 May 2010
Inside Out
Just a quickie today if I may Madam...........
You know how last week I was talking about how staggering acts of stupidity are magnified by disability? It's all to do with the perception of the Idiot Nation. I'm only an idiot occasionally. When my lips move, usually. But whenever I am, I can't help but feel that it leaves an indelible mark for some. A mark that just reads.......'spasmo'.
Anyway, I came up with another cracking example today. In mitigation I was very tired when I awoke this morning. The Bank Holiday weekend had trained my body to think that getting up before 7.00 was inhumane. I very nearly had to be scraped off the bed this morning.
So bearing this in mind, consider this. I put my jumper on inside out. Not only that, but I did not realise that I had done so until nearly two hours later. I happened to be sitting moodily at my desk (as is my default position) when I noticed. At that point I remembered that one or two of my colleagues had smirked at me through the first hour of the day. I have to say I wondered what they had to be smug about. It was Tuesday morning.
I left my desk as casually as is possible in these mortifying circumstances, landed sharply in the disabled toilets and amended the offending garment. I rolled back in just as casually, convinced that I noticed one or two more smirks as I did. Yet nobody said a word about it. Perhaps they felt sorry for the Office Retard. Perhaps they just couldn't believe I had done it. You know how fashion is these days? Clearly I don't.
You know how last week I was talking about how staggering acts of stupidity are magnified by disability? It's all to do with the perception of the Idiot Nation. I'm only an idiot occasionally. When my lips move, usually. But whenever I am, I can't help but feel that it leaves an indelible mark for some. A mark that just reads.......'spasmo'.
Anyway, I came up with another cracking example today. In mitigation I was very tired when I awoke this morning. The Bank Holiday weekend had trained my body to think that getting up before 7.00 was inhumane. I very nearly had to be scraped off the bed this morning.
So bearing this in mind, consider this. I put my jumper on inside out. Not only that, but I did not realise that I had done so until nearly two hours later. I happened to be sitting moodily at my desk (as is my default position) when I noticed. At that point I remembered that one or two of my colleagues had smirked at me through the first hour of the day. I have to say I wondered what they had to be smug about. It was Tuesday morning.
I left my desk as casually as is possible in these mortifying circumstances, landed sharply in the disabled toilets and amended the offending garment. I rolled back in just as casually, convinced that I noticed one or two more smirks as I did. Yet nobody said a word about it. Perhaps they felt sorry for the Office Retard. Perhaps they just couldn't believe I had done it. You know how fashion is these days? Clearly I don't.
Monday, 26 April 2010
Has Beens And Cheese Balls
Past My Best
As is natural for any writer I sometimes wonder about the impact of this blog. No, column. I'm going to call it a column and you can go ahead and call me pretentious.
Anyway I don't mean it's impact internationally. I don't expect it to become a regular feature in a national broadsheet leading to two best-selling novels (a la Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones), but I remain hopeful that those who know me might enjoy it from time to time.
It is with this in mind then that I found something a friend said to me at the weekend quite disturbing. Admittedly he is my friend and therefore biased, and he had been drinking Guinness for four hours previous to our conversation, but the thrust of his message was that he enjoys my work immensely. All of which was a very welcome boost until it transpired that he hasn't even seen this blo.........er column, and was in fact referring to a series of diaries I wrote when I was a teenager.
So, if you don't think much of what you are reading now, you can rest assured that I was a good writer 20 years ago. In the opinion of one of my closest, lifelong friends. The question of why any teenager would allow even (especially?) his closest friends to read his diary is something else entirely, and something which even the world's greatest psycho-analysts may never figure out.
Cheese Balls
It was a depressing Monday morning. The reasons for this are a blog (damn it!) of their own, and one which will not be published until the situation reaches it's denouement. Despite the gloom I happened to strike up a cheery, polite conversation with a young girl who works at the other end of our office. I couldn't even tell you what she does, or even what department she works in. All I know is that she is friendly and polite.
Now this conversation is relevant only because my colleagues take every opportunity to find humour in my antics. Not in a nasty way, you understand, but you have to have something to get you through the day. Especially in the current climate. All of which led one colleague to refer to me during the ensuing discussion about my perceived intentions as a 'Cheese Ball'.
'What does that mean?' I asked.
'It means you are cheesy' she answered unsatisfactorily.
I laughed, despite having never really grasped the concept of what 'cheesy' actually means in this context. Perhaps that fact proves my colleague's point, and that cheesiness is something which can only be truly achieved by those who don't know they are doing it. Or perhaps I really was chatting her up and am therefore morally reprehensible, and due to be shot at dawn.
Whatever gets you through the day, but I maintain my innocence.
As is natural for any writer I sometimes wonder about the impact of this blog. No, column. I'm going to call it a column and you can go ahead and call me pretentious.
Anyway I don't mean it's impact internationally. I don't expect it to become a regular feature in a national broadsheet leading to two best-selling novels (a la Helen Fielding's Bridget Jones), but I remain hopeful that those who know me might enjoy it from time to time.
It is with this in mind then that I found something a friend said to me at the weekend quite disturbing. Admittedly he is my friend and therefore biased, and he had been drinking Guinness for four hours previous to our conversation, but the thrust of his message was that he enjoys my work immensely. All of which was a very welcome boost until it transpired that he hasn't even seen this blo.........er column, and was in fact referring to a series of diaries I wrote when I was a teenager.
So, if you don't think much of what you are reading now, you can rest assured that I was a good writer 20 years ago. In the opinion of one of my closest, lifelong friends. The question of why any teenager would allow even (especially?) his closest friends to read his diary is something else entirely, and something which even the world's greatest psycho-analysts may never figure out.
Cheese Balls
It was a depressing Monday morning. The reasons for this are a blog (damn it!) of their own, and one which will not be published until the situation reaches it's denouement. Despite the gloom I happened to strike up a cheery, polite conversation with a young girl who works at the other end of our office. I couldn't even tell you what she does, or even what department she works in. All I know is that she is friendly and polite.
Now this conversation is relevant only because my colleagues take every opportunity to find humour in my antics. Not in a nasty way, you understand, but you have to have something to get you through the day. Especially in the current climate. All of which led one colleague to refer to me during the ensuing discussion about my perceived intentions as a 'Cheese Ball'.
'What does that mean?' I asked.
'It means you are cheesy' she answered unsatisfactorily.
I laughed, despite having never really grasped the concept of what 'cheesy' actually means in this context. Perhaps that fact proves my colleague's point, and that cheesiness is something which can only be truly achieved by those who don't know they are doing it. Or perhaps I really was chatting her up and am therefore morally reprehensible, and due to be shot at dawn.
Whatever gets you through the day, but I maintain my innocence.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
Sudafed - Don't Do It Kids
I'm not here to laugh at suicide, but when having a spot of lunch (get me, they don't have lunch in Thatto Heath) with a couple of friends the other day we did stumble upon an amusing anecdote that is loosely related to the theme.
Many years ago I came home from a night out in town feeling utterly terrible. Events had conspired against me (which they seemed to every week but usually I was more philosophical about it) and so I decided I didn't want to feel anything any more. At this point an important distinction is necessary. I didn't want to die, or even be hospitalised or anything of such gravity. I just didn't want to feel anything. I ended up feeling a twat.
Now my mother doesn't normally stock the kind of drugs that provide what I needed and so as I was living with her at the time I had to make do and mend. I went to the medication drawer (everyone has one, don't they?) and could only find a packet of Sudafed. To this day I am not entirely sure what Sudafed is meant to do. I think it is something to do with nasal congestion but it might just as easily be a remedy for the Bubonic Plague.
What I do know about it is that it does not kill you. At least it did not kill me. I took somewhere between six and eight tablets (I can't accurately recall, it was a long time ago, which is a defence I swear by) and was soon fast asleep. And so it had the desired effect you might think. Well yes, until you consider that for three days afterwards my head was spinning like Lord Mandelson on Speed (or Sudafed) and that everything seemed to be happening at three times it's normal pace. This was most disconcerting and was enough to ensure I have not repeated the exercise since.
These are the kind of things I laugh at when I go for lunch with my mates. Seriously, there is something very wrong with me.
Many years ago I came home from a night out in town feeling utterly terrible. Events had conspired against me (which they seemed to every week but usually I was more philosophical about it) and so I decided I didn't want to feel anything any more. At this point an important distinction is necessary. I didn't want to die, or even be hospitalised or anything of such gravity. I just didn't want to feel anything. I ended up feeling a twat.
Now my mother doesn't normally stock the kind of drugs that provide what I needed and so as I was living with her at the time I had to make do and mend. I went to the medication drawer (everyone has one, don't they?) and could only find a packet of Sudafed. To this day I am not entirely sure what Sudafed is meant to do. I think it is something to do with nasal congestion but it might just as easily be a remedy for the Bubonic Plague.
What I do know about it is that it does not kill you. At least it did not kill me. I took somewhere between six and eight tablets (I can't accurately recall, it was a long time ago, which is a defence I swear by) and was soon fast asleep. And so it had the desired effect you might think. Well yes, until you consider that for three days afterwards my head was spinning like Lord Mandelson on Speed (or Sudafed) and that everything seemed to be happening at three times it's normal pace. This was most disconcerting and was enough to ensure I have not repeated the exercise since.
These are the kind of things I laugh at when I go for lunch with my mates. Seriously, there is something very wrong with me.
Tuesday, 20 April 2010
Take That And (The Conservative) Party
'A working class hero is something to be'. So sang John Lennon in December 1970.
Apparently the legendary ex-Beatle was trying to tell us something about working class people being 'processed' into the middle classes of an increasingly capitalist society. Or becoming wealthy, as it might be more commonly known.
Were Lennon to convey the same message now he could easily be talking directly to Gary Barlow. Unwisely, the Take That front man has publicly pledged his support to the Conservative Party for the forthcoming General Election. In doing so, he has taken the even more dubious step of being seen on the road with David Cameron on the campaign trail. The pair were seen launching a new X-Factor style talent contest for young people, though it remains unlikely that Cameron will replace Robbie Williams as the fifth member of the group. Come on, they're not a band. Bands play instruments.
Which is not to say that Barlow is not possessed of great talent. In fact, whether you like pop music or not as a genre, you have to concede that Barlow is one of the best songwriters of his generation. Very few of his peers have churned out such a volume of pop classics in a career now spanning almost 20 years. Barlow is consistently brilliant in his field.
Yet I can't help but feeling some measure of disdain for his political choice. For one thing it is unwise for someone so heavily reliant on populist culture to reveal anything about his politics. The only possible result is that you will alienate a large number of your audience to some degree. I for one will never listen to 'Never Forget' again without the nagging feeling that he has done just that. For another he is just plain wrong. There is something sad about his Phil Collins-esque alliance with the politics of greed. There may be finer margins between the two main parties' ideologies these days, but to side with the Tories is still to fart in the face of social justice.
It would have been easy to pepper this piece with Take That references to pick up my usual quota of cheap laughs. But surely I'm above that? Er....no.
Are the Tories Back For Good? In politics Everything Changes if you have a little Patience. Personally I'm going to Pray that May 6 does not become the Greatest Day of Cameron's life and that the smarmy tosser never gets to Rule The World. Or even the UK.
Apparently the legendary ex-Beatle was trying to tell us something about working class people being 'processed' into the middle classes of an increasingly capitalist society. Or becoming wealthy, as it might be more commonly known.
Were Lennon to convey the same message now he could easily be talking directly to Gary Barlow. Unwisely, the Take That front man has publicly pledged his support to the Conservative Party for the forthcoming General Election. In doing so, he has taken the even more dubious step of being seen on the road with David Cameron on the campaign trail. The pair were seen launching a new X-Factor style talent contest for young people, though it remains unlikely that Cameron will replace Robbie Williams as the fifth member of the group. Come on, they're not a band. Bands play instruments.
Which is not to say that Barlow is not possessed of great talent. In fact, whether you like pop music or not as a genre, you have to concede that Barlow is one of the best songwriters of his generation. Very few of his peers have churned out such a volume of pop classics in a career now spanning almost 20 years. Barlow is consistently brilliant in his field.
Yet I can't help but feeling some measure of disdain for his political choice. For one thing it is unwise for someone so heavily reliant on populist culture to reveal anything about his politics. The only possible result is that you will alienate a large number of your audience to some degree. I for one will never listen to 'Never Forget' again without the nagging feeling that he has done just that. For another he is just plain wrong. There is something sad about his Phil Collins-esque alliance with the politics of greed. There may be finer margins between the two main parties' ideologies these days, but to side with the Tories is still to fart in the face of social justice.
It would have been easy to pepper this piece with Take That references to pick up my usual quota of cheap laughs. But surely I'm above that? Er....no.
Are the Tories Back For Good? In politics Everything Changes if you have a little Patience. Personally I'm going to Pray that May 6 does not become the Greatest Day of Cameron's life and that the smarmy tosser never gets to Rule The World. Or even the UK.
Monday, 19 April 2010
Monday's Wheel Issues
I don't normally write about anything that happens at work. It's a bit of a taboo. There's far too much scope for offending the wrong people unintentionally, which would be disastrous if they happen to be more important than me. Which most of them are.
But.........
Late this afternoon I was asked by a student to check whether we had received her attendance sheet for a placement she had been on. I went through the relevant file and found nothing, roping two of my eager-to-leave colleagues (It was almost 4.30pm) into the search. They couldn't find it, not that is until one of them went back to the original file and located the offending document AT THE FRONT OF THE FILE!
Now, everyone makes mistakes, but this is not what you need as a wheelchair user. People think you are a spasmo to begin with, so there is no future in making such elementary errors. The combination of a wheelchair and staggering stupidity (albeit temporary at the end of a long and quite stressful day) only serves to intensify the humiliation. I have set the Disability Rights movement back decades and can only apologise to any of you out there who might be among our number.
Unless you are thick in which case you deserve all you get.
Able-bodied people can be just as thick. Yesterday a friend of mine (wheelchair user, but they are not all, I promise you), phoned to ask if I was alright. He had heard that someone using a wheelchair had been involved in an accident near to my local pub. There were police and an ambulance in attendance, and the victim had clearly suffered significant injury.
'Nah, wasn't me mate, I stayed in on Friday', I told my friend, to which he replied;
'Oh good. Tell you what though, I got told it was me!'
I nearly dropped the phone laughing. For some we wheelchair users all roll into one. I have lost count of the number of times I have been mistaken for another wheelchair user (this friend Phil, and another friend Paul being just two examples). I look nothing like either from the seat cushion upwards. Yet neither of these beat being mistaken for Malcolm, who uses an electric wheelchair! I look nothing like Malcolm from the fucking wheels up!
Come on Britain. You're not trying..............
PROLOGUE
While we're on a theme, I have an older story for you. No less embarrassing, and sadly no less true.
I was on a night out with a group of friends in Liverpool some years ago. It was one of the wettest, shittiest nights weather-wise in all human history. I was crossing the street close to Lime Street Station (I love it there) when a man approached me with a big friendly smile;
"Alright mate.........." he began as he approached me, adding;
"I've got a brother just like you.............."
I gave him a look of puzzlement, carefully considered my options and said;
"What, you mean he is piss wet through?"
He did not continue the conversation..........
But.........
Late this afternoon I was asked by a student to check whether we had received her attendance sheet for a placement she had been on. I went through the relevant file and found nothing, roping two of my eager-to-leave colleagues (It was almost 4.30pm) into the search. They couldn't find it, not that is until one of them went back to the original file and located the offending document AT THE FRONT OF THE FILE!
Now, everyone makes mistakes, but this is not what you need as a wheelchair user. People think you are a spasmo to begin with, so there is no future in making such elementary errors. The combination of a wheelchair and staggering stupidity (albeit temporary at the end of a long and quite stressful day) only serves to intensify the humiliation. I have set the Disability Rights movement back decades and can only apologise to any of you out there who might be among our number.
Unless you are thick in which case you deserve all you get.
Able-bodied people can be just as thick. Yesterday a friend of mine (wheelchair user, but they are not all, I promise you), phoned to ask if I was alright. He had heard that someone using a wheelchair had been involved in an accident near to my local pub. There were police and an ambulance in attendance, and the victim had clearly suffered significant injury.
'Nah, wasn't me mate, I stayed in on Friday', I told my friend, to which he replied;
'Oh good. Tell you what though, I got told it was me!'
I nearly dropped the phone laughing. For some we wheelchair users all roll into one. I have lost count of the number of times I have been mistaken for another wheelchair user (this friend Phil, and another friend Paul being just two examples). I look nothing like either from the seat cushion upwards. Yet neither of these beat being mistaken for Malcolm, who uses an electric wheelchair! I look nothing like Malcolm from the fucking wheels up!
Come on Britain. You're not trying..............
PROLOGUE
While we're on a theme, I have an older story for you. No less embarrassing, and sadly no less true.
I was on a night out with a group of friends in Liverpool some years ago. It was one of the wettest, shittiest nights weather-wise in all human history. I was crossing the street close to Lime Street Station (I love it there) when a man approached me with a big friendly smile;
"Alright mate.........." he began as he approached me, adding;
"I've got a brother just like you.............."
I gave him a look of puzzlement, carefully considered my options and said;
"What, you mean he is piss wet through?"
He did not continue the conversation..........
Friday, 16 April 2010
Clash Of The Titans
I was going to write a review of this, the 2010 version of a classic tale of Greek mythology, with it's preposterously large serpentine monsters and grumpy Gods. I still might, but before I do there is something I should probably share with you about Clash Of The Titans.
My Dad took me to the old Savoy cinema in town to see the 1981 version. Now the most under-used club since Tiger Woods' 4-iron, the Savoy was once the only option if you wanted that cinematic experience. Sadly, it only had three screens. None of them were wheelchair accessible, but that's another story. We've had all that with the trains. Anyway, it's 1981. What do you want? Equality? Fuck off. We need at least 2010 years for society to get anywhere near that. And even then...........Ok, I'll stop now...........
The point is, anyway, that I was terrified as a five-year old. One look at a ludicrously large winged horse and that was me, screaming the place down. Best we not even get started on Medusa, save to say that I have had a phobia of snakes for as long as I can remember and it might just be down to her hairdresser.
I was hoping to be rather less hysterical upon visiting the infintely more accessible Cineworld in 2010. I managed it, though that is not to say that there isn't enough in Clash Of The Titans to inspire a slight tantrum should one be so inclined.
For the most part it is all good fun. If you can get past Sam Worthington's Perseus being played out as a faithful tribute to Russell Crowe's Maximus in Gladiator. If you don't mind the appearance of a random Bond girl (Gemma Arterton) pushing Andromeda out of the role of love interest and into the relative walk-on part of Kraken-fodder. If you can avoid spending the entirety of the film wondering if Draco (do you think that is where J.K.Rowley got the idea from?) is played by The Rock. He's not, he's played by Mads Mikkelsen, last seen in the same God Awful Bond Movie as Arterton.
If you can get past this, and Worthington's muddled accent (Australian? Scottish? South African? Gungan? Turns out Worthington was born in Surrey but is a graduate of the Australian National Institute of Dramatic Art), then there is much to enjoy also. What's not to like about a plot which sends Perseus on a quest to discover how to fell the aforementioned Kraken, thus sparing the life of Andromeda? To do so he must behead Medusa, who is now apparently so repugnant to men that one look into her eyes turns them to stone. So why do I still fancy her then? Could it be because she is actually played by Natalia Vodianova, a Russian actress and model who may sound like a tennis star, but is actually most notable for being the face of Calvin Klein and for once hosting a semi-final of Eurovision? Probably.
Andromeda is placed in mortal danger by Ralph Fiennes' creepy Hades, a performance that has unfairly sparked comparisons to Rowley's Lord Voldemoort. After all, Hades is much older than any two-bit Wizard-waster, and thus has first dibs if there is any croakily-voiced slithering (Slytherin?) to be done. Hades thinks that mortals are most ungrateful, and has decreed that he will release the terrifying Kraken unless the people of Argos agree to sacrifice Andromeda within 10 days. Does anything get delivered from Argos within 10 days? Do they even deliver? If not, that joke doesn't work and I can only apologise. I'm an idiot.
Less convincing is Liam Neeson as Zeus, who it is revealed is not only the biological father of our hero (Star Wars, anyone?), but also a rapist. Turns out he sneaked into Perseus' mum's room late one night and enjoyed the most wicked of ways. You're a fecking God! Just ask. Yet to say that this indiscretion is out of character for Zeus would be unfair, as character is something that this particular incarnation lacks almost completely. Neeson spends much of his time wearily arguing with brother Hades, and wanting to be anywhere else but here.
Yet through all of this, through all of the overly long battles with giant scorpion creatures, you can't help but will Perseus on as he flies in on the back of the mighty winged (and oddly black) Pegesus for his final confrontation with the Kraken. And I don't think I'm spoiling it (this story is roughly 2500 years old after all) when I tell you that our favourite Demi-God does not disappoint. Though personally I felt that the Kraken was a somewhat one-dimensional fighter, relying far too heavily on his sheer enormity and ugliness than any great combat skills.
Clash Of The Titans will not change your life, but it may very well make your five-year old cry so do the decent thing and book yourself a babysitter.
My Dad took me to the old Savoy cinema in town to see the 1981 version. Now the most under-used club since Tiger Woods' 4-iron, the Savoy was once the only option if you wanted that cinematic experience. Sadly, it only had three screens. None of them were wheelchair accessible, but that's another story. We've had all that with the trains. Anyway, it's 1981. What do you want? Equality? Fuck off. We need at least 2010 years for society to get anywhere near that. And even then...........Ok, I'll stop now...........
The point is, anyway, that I was terrified as a five-year old. One look at a ludicrously large winged horse and that was me, screaming the place down. Best we not even get started on Medusa, save to say that I have had a phobia of snakes for as long as I can remember and it might just be down to her hairdresser.
I was hoping to be rather less hysterical upon visiting the infintely more accessible Cineworld in 2010. I managed it, though that is not to say that there isn't enough in Clash Of The Titans to inspire a slight tantrum should one be so inclined.
For the most part it is all good fun. If you can get past Sam Worthington's Perseus being played out as a faithful tribute to Russell Crowe's Maximus in Gladiator. If you don't mind the appearance of a random Bond girl (Gemma Arterton) pushing Andromeda out of the role of love interest and into the relative walk-on part of Kraken-fodder. If you can avoid spending the entirety of the film wondering if Draco (do you think that is where J.K.Rowley got the idea from?) is played by The Rock. He's not, he's played by Mads Mikkelsen, last seen in the same God Awful Bond Movie as Arterton.
If you can get past this, and Worthington's muddled accent (Australian? Scottish? South African? Gungan? Turns out Worthington was born in Surrey but is a graduate of the Australian National Institute of Dramatic Art), then there is much to enjoy also. What's not to like about a plot which sends Perseus on a quest to discover how to fell the aforementioned Kraken, thus sparing the life of Andromeda? To do so he must behead Medusa, who is now apparently so repugnant to men that one look into her eyes turns them to stone. So why do I still fancy her then? Could it be because she is actually played by Natalia Vodianova, a Russian actress and model who may sound like a tennis star, but is actually most notable for being the face of Calvin Klein and for once hosting a semi-final of Eurovision? Probably.
Andromeda is placed in mortal danger by Ralph Fiennes' creepy Hades, a performance that has unfairly sparked comparisons to Rowley's Lord Voldemoort. After all, Hades is much older than any two-bit Wizard-waster, and thus has first dibs if there is any croakily-voiced slithering (Slytherin?) to be done. Hades thinks that mortals are most ungrateful, and has decreed that he will release the terrifying Kraken unless the people of Argos agree to sacrifice Andromeda within 10 days. Does anything get delivered from Argos within 10 days? Do they even deliver? If not, that joke doesn't work and I can only apologise. I'm an idiot.
Less convincing is Liam Neeson as Zeus, who it is revealed is not only the biological father of our hero (Star Wars, anyone?), but also a rapist. Turns out he sneaked into Perseus' mum's room late one night and enjoyed the most wicked of ways. You're a fecking God! Just ask. Yet to say that this indiscretion is out of character for Zeus would be unfair, as character is something that this particular incarnation lacks almost completely. Neeson spends much of his time wearily arguing with brother Hades, and wanting to be anywhere else but here.
Yet through all of this, through all of the overly long battles with giant scorpion creatures, you can't help but will Perseus on as he flies in on the back of the mighty winged (and oddly black) Pegesus for his final confrontation with the Kraken. And I don't think I'm spoiling it (this story is roughly 2500 years old after all) when I tell you that our favourite Demi-God does not disappoint. Though personally I felt that the Kraken was a somewhat one-dimensional fighter, relying far too heavily on his sheer enormity and ugliness than any great combat skills.
Clash Of The Titans will not change your life, but it may very well make your five-year old cry so do the decent thing and book yourself a babysitter.
Sunday, 4 April 2010
No Pain, No Train - Part 2
TWELVE DAYS LATER........................
Tuesday, March 23 2010. Those of you familiar with the tale of woe that was part 1 will be alarmed to know that it takes less than two weeks for more train tomfoolery to take place.
Again it is those serial offenders at Lime Street Station who must be held responsible for this latest farce. Again it is assistance on the 5.01pm to Thatto Heath which proves beyond their capabilities. Only this is a different type of farce. A whole new angle on balls-ups. On reflection, I can only admire their versatility in this field. It must take a great deal of effort.
4.45pm. Just as out of breath as I was previously, I arrive at the station in good time. I pass through the platform gate and notice the same burly woman at the gate from the original, sorry tale. Again I ask for assistance. Again she nods and begins whispering into her walkie-talkie. 'Charlie Tango, Tea-kettle Barbecue.' Or something. I take it that means I should go through and wait by the platform.
There is a digital clock on the platform. A few minutes pass. 4.55pm. No panic. After all, notwithstanding the obsessive security surrounding ramps at Lime Street, it shouldn't take that long to board the train. I go back to my mp3 player and my muddled, post-work thoughts. A passing rail-worker suddenly attracts my attention. I'm about to ask for help, but he's on to me in a flash;
"It's not us mate." he offers, pointing to the company logo on his uniform.
"It's Network Rail." I think he says, though I'm so stupefied by the idea that privatisation has come to this that I can't be sure. If I'm right, what he is telling me is that he cannot assist me onto the train because he does not work for the company providing the train. And he's not alone. No fewer than three men tell me the same thing. It's like being left to die on the side of the pavement by the Good Samaritan because he has just got a job with BUPA.
I look up at the clock once more. 4.59 and 35......36..........37........38 seconds. At the other end of the platform, near the front of the train, I can make out the rotund figure of the guard. I wave at him. Casually at first, upping the ante with each movement until by 5.00 and around 28 seconds I am wildly jesticulating like a soon-to-be ex-extra in a Jaws movie. He's no Roy Scheider, and consequently decides that he hasn't seen me. I wasn't expecting him to start ringing bells and telling everyone to get off the beach, but I can't help but feel a little let down as he noncholantly steps back aboard the train.
I glance once more to the gate area and see nobody, turning my gaze again to see the 5.01 to Thatto Heath pulling away from the platform. There is a quite ludicrous moment when I think about pushing after it. Chasing the very last train when it's too late, as James Morrison might say. I am reminded of Gene Wilder doing something similar in a film called the Silver Streak and realise it's futility. If an able-bodied actor in an action comedy can't keep up, what chance an overweight raspberry who really needs a tyre change in any case? I don't move, but can still hear the voice of my late Grandmother shouting at Gene to 'hurry up, you fool.' as he begins his pointless pursuit. She was an optimist.
At this point I do something I am not normally given to doing. I complain. It's probably not her fault, but I tell the burly woman at the gate with the walkie-talkie that she and her colleagues are 'a disgrace'. She seems unmoved by this, or by the fact that they have actually managed to let me miss my train home. Still, she mumbles into the walkie-talkie once more, waving a hand at me as if to suggest I should be a little more patient and all will be fine.
Moments later a man I presume to be her senior comes through the gate and questions me over the incident. He's extroardinarily bald. He puts me in mind of the little man in the Benny Hill Show who spent entire episodes being slapped on his bald pate and running away from scantily clad women. I can hear the famous, accompanying music in my head as he apologises profusely, and can't help but think that the image suits this ridiculous situation.
There are no scantily-clad women by way of any consolation, but the man does at least help me onto the next train, due to depart around 20 minutes later. He makes it clear to all staff on board what will happen to their nether regions should they fail to help me disembark at Thatto Heath. I can't resist pointing out to him that his staff had already demonstrated this part of their repertoire less than two weeks earlier. I'm in full complaint mode now, but a sense of relief stops me giving it the full Victor Meldrew.
I go back to the music and my own thoughts, and try not to think too much about where I will end up this time.................
Tuesday, March 23 2010. Those of you familiar with the tale of woe that was part 1 will be alarmed to know that it takes less than two weeks for more train tomfoolery to take place.
Again it is those serial offenders at Lime Street Station who must be held responsible for this latest farce. Again it is assistance on the 5.01pm to Thatto Heath which proves beyond their capabilities. Only this is a different type of farce. A whole new angle on balls-ups. On reflection, I can only admire their versatility in this field. It must take a great deal of effort.
4.45pm. Just as out of breath as I was previously, I arrive at the station in good time. I pass through the platform gate and notice the same burly woman at the gate from the original, sorry tale. Again I ask for assistance. Again she nods and begins whispering into her walkie-talkie. 'Charlie Tango, Tea-kettle Barbecue.' Or something. I take it that means I should go through and wait by the platform.
There is a digital clock on the platform. A few minutes pass. 4.55pm. No panic. After all, notwithstanding the obsessive security surrounding ramps at Lime Street, it shouldn't take that long to board the train. I go back to my mp3 player and my muddled, post-work thoughts. A passing rail-worker suddenly attracts my attention. I'm about to ask for help, but he's on to me in a flash;
"It's not us mate." he offers, pointing to the company logo on his uniform.
"It's Network Rail." I think he says, though I'm so stupefied by the idea that privatisation has come to this that I can't be sure. If I'm right, what he is telling me is that he cannot assist me onto the train because he does not work for the company providing the train. And he's not alone. No fewer than three men tell me the same thing. It's like being left to die on the side of the pavement by the Good Samaritan because he has just got a job with BUPA.
I look up at the clock once more. 4.59 and 35......36..........37........38 seconds. At the other end of the platform, near the front of the train, I can make out the rotund figure of the guard. I wave at him. Casually at first, upping the ante with each movement until by 5.00 and around 28 seconds I am wildly jesticulating like a soon-to-be ex-extra in a Jaws movie. He's no Roy Scheider, and consequently decides that he hasn't seen me. I wasn't expecting him to start ringing bells and telling everyone to get off the beach, but I can't help but feel a little let down as he noncholantly steps back aboard the train.
I glance once more to the gate area and see nobody, turning my gaze again to see the 5.01 to Thatto Heath pulling away from the platform. There is a quite ludicrous moment when I think about pushing after it. Chasing the very last train when it's too late, as James Morrison might say. I am reminded of Gene Wilder doing something similar in a film called the Silver Streak and realise it's futility. If an able-bodied actor in an action comedy can't keep up, what chance an overweight raspberry who really needs a tyre change in any case? I don't move, but can still hear the voice of my late Grandmother shouting at Gene to 'hurry up, you fool.' as he begins his pointless pursuit. She was an optimist.
At this point I do something I am not normally given to doing. I complain. It's probably not her fault, but I tell the burly woman at the gate with the walkie-talkie that she and her colleagues are 'a disgrace'. She seems unmoved by this, or by the fact that they have actually managed to let me miss my train home. Still, she mumbles into the walkie-talkie once more, waving a hand at me as if to suggest I should be a little more patient and all will be fine.
Moments later a man I presume to be her senior comes through the gate and questions me over the incident. He's extroardinarily bald. He puts me in mind of the little man in the Benny Hill Show who spent entire episodes being slapped on his bald pate and running away from scantily clad women. I can hear the famous, accompanying music in my head as he apologises profusely, and can't help but think that the image suits this ridiculous situation.
There are no scantily-clad women by way of any consolation, but the man does at least help me onto the next train, due to depart around 20 minutes later. He makes it clear to all staff on board what will happen to their nether regions should they fail to help me disembark at Thatto Heath. I can't resist pointing out to him that his staff had already demonstrated this part of their repertoire less than two weeks earlier. I'm in full complaint mode now, but a sense of relief stops me giving it the full Victor Meldrew.
I go back to the music and my own thoughts, and try not to think too much about where I will end up this time.................
Tuesday, 30 March 2010
No Pain, No Train - Part 1
Working as I do in Liverpool, it is sometimes necessary to travel to and from work by train. For most people, this is as simple and as straightforward a part of everyday life as there is. How is it then that I manage to turn it in to the kind of transport ordeal normally reserved for Tiger Woods and Lewis Hamilton?
It's the wheelchair again. Yes, I know it is crass and melodramatic to blame everything on disability but in this case it's justified. Besides, crass and melodramatic is what I do, and I'm darned good at it too.
If you are still in any doubt that disability is the cause of all this then allow me to share with you a story of recent dealings with our friends in the rail service. It's Thursday March 11 and I have just finished work. I'm on the train. That is to say I have to get the train. I'm not on it yet. I end up wishing I never had been.
The train from Lime Street to Thatto Heath leaves at 5.01pm. I arrive at Lime Street around 4.50. I'm a little put out to begin with. The slopes between my place of work and the station are becoming increasingly unkind to me. It's the wheelchair again. No, it's not. It's age and the fact that I haven't done any meaningful exercise since Live Aid.
Catching my breath, I roll over to the barrier between the concourse and the platforms. I ask a chunky looking woman who looks more suited to working on the doors of the city centre bars if I might possibly have some assistance boarding the train. She doesn't answer, even though I say please. She just mumbles something incoherent into her walkie-talkie. I'm not suspicious yet but I should be. Who uses walkie-talkies in 2010?
Mercifully, it is only a few minutes until an equally heavy-set but different woman arrives on the platform. Like her colleague, she doesn't look at or speak to me, just nods in the direction of the far end of the train and begins unlocking the ramp. Yes, you read that right. Unlocking the ramp. They chain it to the platform railing, or the wall. Why? Who is going to steal a portable ramp, and what for? I should, as it turns out.
I push up the ramp and board the train. This is a minor triumph already. Usually the steps to the train are so steep that the ramp needs to be placed at an almost vertical angle. Edmund Hilary would have trouble making the ascent. Well he would if he couldn't use his legs. All of which necessitates the indignity of having to be pushed up the ramp. I look again at the woman assisting me and feel thankful to have escaped that fate on this occasion. She's a big lass. If she pushes me up that ramp I might very well come out of the opposite door and end up on the railway.
'I'll give them a ring' she says, meaning the people at Thatto Heath station who will need to meet me to assist me in leaving the train. She turns to the guard who is just approaching and repeats this promise to him, putting an outstretched thumb and little finger to her ear as she says it in that way that Peter Kay has made a living from lampooning.
'Where you going mate?' asks the guard.
'Thatto Heath', the burly woman answers for me.
'Sound. I'll sort yer out lad.'
But he doesn't. In fact he doesn't even get on the train because he is not the guard. I don't know who he is. He has a rail workers uniform on, but then I'm wearing a Liverpool shirt and I'm not Fernando Torres. My mistake.
'Thatto Heath'. he blurts in the direction of another man who has just entered the driver's cabin. The driver nods. We leave Lime Street.
We pass Edge Hill. Wavertree. Broad Green. Roby. Huyton. Prescot. Eccleston Park. Thatto Heath.
Thatto Heath. Hang on? Thatto Heath? But shouldn't I be...........?
Well yes, but I'm not. The driver has forgotten about me.
And yet it is not a feeling of horror, panic or even mild anger which envelopes me as we pull away from Thatto Heath on our merry way to St.Helens Central. It's just a kind of weariness similar to that which Blackadder conveys after hearing another of Baldrick's cunning plans. We know it will turn out this way, so what's the point of getting over-excited about it? Better to just roll my eyes and get on with it.
It is due to no small amount of good fortune that I am allowed to disembark at St.Helens, as opposed to any number of stops on the way to Wigan North Western. There happens to be a station employee wandering around aimlessly on the platform as the doors open, and I manage to attract his attention and explain. Not only is he a Godsend in as far as I know that he will help me, but I'm also struck by his ability to talk to me rather than about me.
Meanwhile the driver steps out of his balloon basket and offers a chillingly dense enquiry;
'Didn't they get you off the train at Thatto Heath?'
Er...........no. Didn't you? Didn't your colleague specifically ask you to? Two colleagues in fact, if you count the burly woman who was allegedly making the phone call. I want to say all of this but say none of it, choosing instead to huffily advance through the station towards the taxi rank, turning down the offer of assistance on the next train back the other way. I haven't got all night. I have to be back at work for 8.30 the following morning. Best make alternative arrangements.
So I get a taxi.
'Make sure you get a receipt.' offers the accidentally helpful station employee, but I hardly hear him. I'm in the taxi telling the driver most of this story. I pay him £5.30 for his trouble, but get nothing for mine. I resolve to write a letter of complaint, but then remember the last time I did this and received a written apology and a travel voucher worth £1.00 I decide my life is too short. I still haven't written that letter..............
It's the wheelchair again. Yes, I know it is crass and melodramatic to blame everything on disability but in this case it's justified. Besides, crass and melodramatic is what I do, and I'm darned good at it too.
If you are still in any doubt that disability is the cause of all this then allow me to share with you a story of recent dealings with our friends in the rail service. It's Thursday March 11 and I have just finished work. I'm on the train. That is to say I have to get the train. I'm not on it yet. I end up wishing I never had been.
The train from Lime Street to Thatto Heath leaves at 5.01pm. I arrive at Lime Street around 4.50. I'm a little put out to begin with. The slopes between my place of work and the station are becoming increasingly unkind to me. It's the wheelchair again. No, it's not. It's age and the fact that I haven't done any meaningful exercise since Live Aid.
Catching my breath, I roll over to the barrier between the concourse and the platforms. I ask a chunky looking woman who looks more suited to working on the doors of the city centre bars if I might possibly have some assistance boarding the train. She doesn't answer, even though I say please. She just mumbles something incoherent into her walkie-talkie. I'm not suspicious yet but I should be. Who uses walkie-talkies in 2010?
Mercifully, it is only a few minutes until an equally heavy-set but different woman arrives on the platform. Like her colleague, she doesn't look at or speak to me, just nods in the direction of the far end of the train and begins unlocking the ramp. Yes, you read that right. Unlocking the ramp. They chain it to the platform railing, or the wall. Why? Who is going to steal a portable ramp, and what for? I should, as it turns out.
I push up the ramp and board the train. This is a minor triumph already. Usually the steps to the train are so steep that the ramp needs to be placed at an almost vertical angle. Edmund Hilary would have trouble making the ascent. Well he would if he couldn't use his legs. All of which necessitates the indignity of having to be pushed up the ramp. I look again at the woman assisting me and feel thankful to have escaped that fate on this occasion. She's a big lass. If she pushes me up that ramp I might very well come out of the opposite door and end up on the railway.
'I'll give them a ring' she says, meaning the people at Thatto Heath station who will need to meet me to assist me in leaving the train. She turns to the guard who is just approaching and repeats this promise to him, putting an outstretched thumb and little finger to her ear as she says it in that way that Peter Kay has made a living from lampooning.
'Where you going mate?' asks the guard.
'Thatto Heath', the burly woman answers for me.
'Sound. I'll sort yer out lad.'
But he doesn't. In fact he doesn't even get on the train because he is not the guard. I don't know who he is. He has a rail workers uniform on, but then I'm wearing a Liverpool shirt and I'm not Fernando Torres. My mistake.
'Thatto Heath'. he blurts in the direction of another man who has just entered the driver's cabin. The driver nods. We leave Lime Street.
We pass Edge Hill. Wavertree. Broad Green. Roby. Huyton. Prescot. Eccleston Park. Thatto Heath.
Thatto Heath. Hang on? Thatto Heath? But shouldn't I be...........?
Well yes, but I'm not. The driver has forgotten about me.
And yet it is not a feeling of horror, panic or even mild anger which envelopes me as we pull away from Thatto Heath on our merry way to St.Helens Central. It's just a kind of weariness similar to that which Blackadder conveys after hearing another of Baldrick's cunning plans. We know it will turn out this way, so what's the point of getting over-excited about it? Better to just roll my eyes and get on with it.
It is due to no small amount of good fortune that I am allowed to disembark at St.Helens, as opposed to any number of stops on the way to Wigan North Western. There happens to be a station employee wandering around aimlessly on the platform as the doors open, and I manage to attract his attention and explain. Not only is he a Godsend in as far as I know that he will help me, but I'm also struck by his ability to talk to me rather than about me.
Meanwhile the driver steps out of his balloon basket and offers a chillingly dense enquiry;
'Didn't they get you off the train at Thatto Heath?'
Er...........no. Didn't you? Didn't your colleague specifically ask you to? Two colleagues in fact, if you count the burly woman who was allegedly making the phone call. I want to say all of this but say none of it, choosing instead to huffily advance through the station towards the taxi rank, turning down the offer of assistance on the next train back the other way. I haven't got all night. I have to be back at work for 8.30 the following morning. Best make alternative arrangements.
So I get a taxi.
'Make sure you get a receipt.' offers the accidentally helpful station employee, but I hardly hear him. I'm in the taxi telling the driver most of this story. I pay him £5.30 for his trouble, but get nothing for mine. I resolve to write a letter of complaint, but then remember the last time I did this and received a written apology and a travel voucher worth £1.00 I decide my life is too short. I still haven't written that letter..............
Monday, 29 March 2010
Being Angry And Wet Wit
This is the first post on this blogspot (pardon my fuckwit language) since March 5 2009. Today's date is March 29 2010. We are a year further on and, upon returning to my work out of an interest re-ignited by something a friend said, I notice that I am the world's angriest person.
I'm not quite sure how this happened but the evidence is compelling. My assessment of Gok Wan following his appearance on the 2009 BRIT awards show spat more venom than a viper who has just received a phone call in the middle of Eastenders. Wan's crime on the night was only to present an award to some admittedly undeserved recipient. Yet I couldn't leave it there. I was incandescent with rage about Wan getting paid to sneer at people. Getting paid to sneer at people was probably my number one ambition before I started my current job. Irony eh?
On further inspection there were several other victims of my ire, not all of them alive enough to offer any kind of defence. Job interviews, karaoke (which I love, figure that out), family dos, people who don't like Joss Stone, people who do like Rihanna and Lily Allen, people who want to park their car in the same place at the same time as I do, The Ting-Tings and Estelle all managed to grind what Peter Griffin might call 'my gears'. These things seem relatively trivial even to me now, so where does all of this splenetic juice-firing come from, and what's the point?
Dry wit, that's what. When I'm churning out this stuff I am driven to do so by a faint amusement at the rubbishness of all of these things. So it is an attempt at humour which, when you read it back a year later, leaps off the page not as some kind of Newswipe-esque meandering but as a furious tirade against British culture. Something seems to get lost in the translation. I make the mistake of thinking at the time of writing that people will 'get me', when all but a select few are really thinking 'get him'.
So if dry wit leads me down this path ,where would 'wet wit' take me? Is there such a thing? If there is who are it's greatest (worst?) exponents? Uncomplicated humourists like James Corden and our mate Vegas make people laugh, so who am I to say that their wit is decidedly damp? Or that if it is that there is something wrong with that? They're the ones getting paid to be shit, after all. I'll be getting up for work again tomorrow morning and it is 11.41pm now. Laugh at that Orford.
Or do what you always do and just get angry...........in a dry, witty way.
I'm not quite sure how this happened but the evidence is compelling. My assessment of Gok Wan following his appearance on the 2009 BRIT awards show spat more venom than a viper who has just received a phone call in the middle of Eastenders. Wan's crime on the night was only to present an award to some admittedly undeserved recipient. Yet I couldn't leave it there. I was incandescent with rage about Wan getting paid to sneer at people. Getting paid to sneer at people was probably my number one ambition before I started my current job. Irony eh?
On further inspection there were several other victims of my ire, not all of them alive enough to offer any kind of defence. Job interviews, karaoke (which I love, figure that out), family dos, people who don't like Joss Stone, people who do like Rihanna and Lily Allen, people who want to park their car in the same place at the same time as I do, The Ting-Tings and Estelle all managed to grind what Peter Griffin might call 'my gears'. These things seem relatively trivial even to me now, so where does all of this splenetic juice-firing come from, and what's the point?
Dry wit, that's what. When I'm churning out this stuff I am driven to do so by a faint amusement at the rubbishness of all of these things. So it is an attempt at humour which, when you read it back a year later, leaps off the page not as some kind of Newswipe-esque meandering but as a furious tirade against British culture. Something seems to get lost in the translation. I make the mistake of thinking at the time of writing that people will 'get me', when all but a select few are really thinking 'get him'.
So if dry wit leads me down this path ,where would 'wet wit' take me? Is there such a thing? If there is who are it's greatest (worst?) exponents? Uncomplicated humourists like James Corden and our mate Vegas make people laugh, so who am I to say that their wit is decidedly damp? Or that if it is that there is something wrong with that? They're the ones getting paid to be shit, after all. I'll be getting up for work again tomorrow morning and it is 11.41pm now. Laugh at that Orford.
Or do what you always do and just get angry...........in a dry, witty way.
Thursday, 5 March 2009
Changeling
Directed by Clint Eastwood, the story of Christine Collins is a pretty harrowing affair. Angelina Jolie stars as Collins in a film apparently based on a true story.
It's March 1928 and Collins is unexpectedly called out to work. She's a telephone supervisor. On roller skates. Stay with me. It's 1928. They probably did those kinds of things back then. Anyway she returns from her shift to find her son 9-year-old son Walter has vanished.
And so begins a relentless pursuit of the truth behind Walter's disappearance. At every turn there is a development which offers hope to Collins, before ripping it away in the cruellest of ways. At a certain point you find yourself thinking that no woman could possibly have endured this much false hope followed by such crushing disappointment, yet at no point does he lose faith that she will find her son.
The corrupt Los Angeles Police Department are less convinced, and so hatch a plan to convince Collins that her ordeal is over. The plan is simple enough. They just find a boy that looks more or less like Walter, and hand him over. Collins' protests at being re-united with a boy she has never met before (if that is possible) spark a chain of events that would seem even less plausible were we not remembering that all of this is true. Apparently.
Forced incarceration, electro-therapy, fingers in private orifaces. It's all here as Collins feels the full force of the LAPD's determination to exhibit her as a psychiatric case study, and thus continue to revel in the glory of having 'found' Walter. The handling of Collins' transformation from worried mother to cuckoo's nest in-patient could have been handled a little smoother.
Some of the acting is unconvincing, especially Jeffrey Donovan's portrayal of police captain J.J.Jones. We're hearing him give the reasons why he thinks Collins would deny the new boy is hers, but the sane among us are not believing a word. Also, and without giving too much away, the performance of young Eddie Alderson as the boy who unlocks some (but crucially not all) of the secrets of Walter's disappearance is decidedly shaky. Even for a child.
The best performance in the film is probably Jolie's, although points are knocked off for a shower scene which shows us absolutely nothing of interest. A monumental waste of potential I'm sure you'll agree. On a similar theme John Malkovich is slightly under-used as the reverand pastor who helps unravel the LAPD's web of lies, and provides support for Collins during some very dark moments. Yet the most interesting performance in a film is often that of the villain, and the same is true here as Jason Butler Harner has you believing absolutely in the simple-minded madness of the man responsible for Walter's abduction.
I'm not a parent but I found it difficult not to be moved by the plight of Collins. I should imagine that anyone sitting at home watching this film with the little ones tucked up in bed upstairs will feel the emotion several times more intensely.
It's March 1928 and Collins is unexpectedly called out to work. She's a telephone supervisor. On roller skates. Stay with me. It's 1928. They probably did those kinds of things back then. Anyway she returns from her shift to find her son 9-year-old son Walter has vanished.
And so begins a relentless pursuit of the truth behind Walter's disappearance. At every turn there is a development which offers hope to Collins, before ripping it away in the cruellest of ways. At a certain point you find yourself thinking that no woman could possibly have endured this much false hope followed by such crushing disappointment, yet at no point does he lose faith that she will find her son.
The corrupt Los Angeles Police Department are less convinced, and so hatch a plan to convince Collins that her ordeal is over. The plan is simple enough. They just find a boy that looks more or less like Walter, and hand him over. Collins' protests at being re-united with a boy she has never met before (if that is possible) spark a chain of events that would seem even less plausible were we not remembering that all of this is true. Apparently.
Forced incarceration, electro-therapy, fingers in private orifaces. It's all here as Collins feels the full force of the LAPD's determination to exhibit her as a psychiatric case study, and thus continue to revel in the glory of having 'found' Walter. The handling of Collins' transformation from worried mother to cuckoo's nest in-patient could have been handled a little smoother.
Some of the acting is unconvincing, especially Jeffrey Donovan's portrayal of police captain J.J.Jones. We're hearing him give the reasons why he thinks Collins would deny the new boy is hers, but the sane among us are not believing a word. Also, and without giving too much away, the performance of young Eddie Alderson as the boy who unlocks some (but crucially not all) of the secrets of Walter's disappearance is decidedly shaky. Even for a child.
The best performance in the film is probably Jolie's, although points are knocked off for a shower scene which shows us absolutely nothing of interest. A monumental waste of potential I'm sure you'll agree. On a similar theme John Malkovich is slightly under-used as the reverand pastor who helps unravel the LAPD's web of lies, and provides support for Collins during some very dark moments. Yet the most interesting performance in a film is often that of the villain, and the same is true here as Jason Butler Harner has you believing absolutely in the simple-minded madness of the man responsible for Walter's abduction.
I'm not a parent but I found it difficult not to be moved by the plight of Collins. I should imagine that anyone sitting at home watching this film with the little ones tucked up in bed upstairs will feel the emotion several times more intensely.
Wednesday, 18 February 2009
The BRITS 2009
Tonight's BRIT Awards show on ITV has just finished. And Jesus Christ am I glad.
Now I only caught the last 45 minutes, so please forgive me if I have misunderstood. The first 75 minutes could have been a musical triumph. It's just that the section of the show that I had the misfortune to see was anything but.
Imagine waking up from an unscheduled forty winks to find yourself being introduced to possibly the most ill-conceived collaboration since Noel Edmonds met Mr Blobby. That was what lay in store from me when an incrediby badly dressed and quite sinister looking bloke introduced me to The Ting-Tings and Estelle.
'Shut up and let me go' wailed the singer of the talent-defficient former, while the latter marched on stage determined to take the performance on a different course. Yet all attempts to rescue it from ruin were scotched when Estelle gave us 'American Boy'. Frankly these two tracks (such as they are) fitted together like milk-shake and orange juice. The inevitably curdled result was as stomach-churning as it gets.
Eventually the pair arrived at the same page with a well-intentioned but catastrophic version of 'That's Not My Name'. Quite apart from this song's pointless monotony, the clash of styles reminded me of Coventry City's Chocolate Brown away kit from the 1970's which I believe featured yellow markings. We're all starting to feel a bit queasy by now.
Before we wretch it is back to the sinister man (who it turns out stars in the much-loved but utterly abject Gavin and Stacey) alongside Kylie. Now Kylie might be Australian but she qualifies as a national treasure. Yet here she was being made to body-pop, as by now the sinister bloke's fat and equally rubbish mate had joined them on stage. At this point there were calls from my sofa of a return to the days of Fleetwood Mac and Samantha Fox. Anything but the direction we were seemingly heading.
Think it can't get any worse? Guess again, as on comes Gok Wan to present an award (I neither know nor care what it was). Without wishing to be homophobic, Wan should almost certainly be shot. What is more, he should be shot while being made to wear clothes that he does not like. I long for the day when television executives realise that the ability to sneer at how other people look is simply not enough to secure a top presenting gig. Nor is being as camp as is humanly possible without actually bending over The Ting-Tings drum-kit. 'Who looks good naked?" he enquired of us. Not fucking you, you talentless boil on the arse of British culture.
It wasn't long before Wan was joined by that other uber-gay moron Alan Carr. In his defence, and for all his annoyances, Carr does at least possess the endearing ability to say something witty now and again. That said, a highlight of the whole sorry affair came when he remarked that he might wet himself in anticipation of the upcoming performance by The Pet Shop Boys. More of whom later. Had Carr actually made good on his leaky bladder suggestion it might well have been worth sitting through what was to come.
And I'm talking about YOU, Girls Aloud. Inexplicably, these five tedious women picked up the gong for Single Of The Year for 'The Promise'. All of which gave yet more unwarranted air-time to Cheryl Cole, whose march towards blanket coverage on all UK networks gathers yet more pace. Quite what the nation's obsession with this pointless individual is will I suspect remain beyond me until they dig me a hole to rest in. Perhaps people feel sorry for her because Gobshite Ashley did the dirty on her. Maybe they like that she now enjoys the noble duty of promoting the next generation of pop-stars on X Factor. It simply can't be the singing, all of which is deathly dull and mostly done by her mates in any case. And don't get me started on the equally tiresome Sarah Harding.
The Pet Shop Boys were there to pick up the award for lifetime achievement, and as is tradition to close the show with a set of their best music. We all saw that coming. What was less obvious was the reason why Chris Lowe (the one who never speaks, moves, sings or dances) played out the entire performance in a pink wig. It put me in mind of a Coronation Street character from my youth named Phyllis Pearce. Phyllis had a voice which sounded like it was being impaired by a throat-full of sand and mud, aswell as a bizarre but touching devotion to local busy-body and all round pain in the Harding Percy Sugden.
I can't see Lowe having the foresight to pay comic tribute to a soap star of yore, so there must have been more to it. Pink is a colour often associated with cancer charities, and particularly those which affect women. I can only hope that this was some sort of show of solidarity or effort to raise awareness to the cause. If so it is highly commendable and I am willing to forgive him and Neil Tennant for playing a large video of themselves in the background to their entire performance. Were they singing live or not, then? Who knows, but if Tennant can't talk about knocking down chairs in a restaurant without the aid of a pre-recorded soundtrack then perhaps he might like to think about returning his award.
Cole (sorry, we're back on her momentarily) told us that her earlier award had been the 'cherry on the cake'. She was wrong. The aforementioned fruit on the gateaux was the appearance of Killers front-man Brandon Flowers alongside the PSB's. PSB's? Makes them sound a little too much like a bank though it would surprise nobody if either Tennant or Lowe decided to take their careers in that direction. In any event, Flowers' contribution to the set was infinitely more successful than Estelle's earlier Ting-Tings Thing Thing, or at least it would have been had both Tennant and Lowe not looked faintly embarrassed throughout. Joining in was a scantily-clad blonde woman who I am sure I am supposed to recognise but don't, and whose aim was to produce a reasonable stab at the Dusty Springfield role in 'What Have I Done To Deserve This?'.
Which, aptly enough, was exactly what I was asking myself as the credits rolled.
By Stephen Orford
18 February 2009
Now I only caught the last 45 minutes, so please forgive me if I have misunderstood. The first 75 minutes could have been a musical triumph. It's just that the section of the show that I had the misfortune to see was anything but.
Imagine waking up from an unscheduled forty winks to find yourself being introduced to possibly the most ill-conceived collaboration since Noel Edmonds met Mr Blobby. That was what lay in store from me when an incrediby badly dressed and quite sinister looking bloke introduced me to The Ting-Tings and Estelle.
'Shut up and let me go' wailed the singer of the talent-defficient former, while the latter marched on stage determined to take the performance on a different course. Yet all attempts to rescue it from ruin were scotched when Estelle gave us 'American Boy'. Frankly these two tracks (such as they are) fitted together like milk-shake and orange juice. The inevitably curdled result was as stomach-churning as it gets.
Eventually the pair arrived at the same page with a well-intentioned but catastrophic version of 'That's Not My Name'. Quite apart from this song's pointless monotony, the clash of styles reminded me of Coventry City's Chocolate Brown away kit from the 1970's which I believe featured yellow markings. We're all starting to feel a bit queasy by now.
Before we wretch it is back to the sinister man (who it turns out stars in the much-loved but utterly abject Gavin and Stacey) alongside Kylie. Now Kylie might be Australian but she qualifies as a national treasure. Yet here she was being made to body-pop, as by now the sinister bloke's fat and equally rubbish mate had joined them on stage. At this point there were calls from my sofa of a return to the days of Fleetwood Mac and Samantha Fox. Anything but the direction we were seemingly heading.
Think it can't get any worse? Guess again, as on comes Gok Wan to present an award (I neither know nor care what it was). Without wishing to be homophobic, Wan should almost certainly be shot. What is more, he should be shot while being made to wear clothes that he does not like. I long for the day when television executives realise that the ability to sneer at how other people look is simply not enough to secure a top presenting gig. Nor is being as camp as is humanly possible without actually bending over The Ting-Tings drum-kit. 'Who looks good naked?" he enquired of us. Not fucking you, you talentless boil on the arse of British culture.
It wasn't long before Wan was joined by that other uber-gay moron Alan Carr. In his defence, and for all his annoyances, Carr does at least possess the endearing ability to say something witty now and again. That said, a highlight of the whole sorry affair came when he remarked that he might wet himself in anticipation of the upcoming performance by The Pet Shop Boys. More of whom later. Had Carr actually made good on his leaky bladder suggestion it might well have been worth sitting through what was to come.
And I'm talking about YOU, Girls Aloud. Inexplicably, these five tedious women picked up the gong for Single Of The Year for 'The Promise'. All of which gave yet more unwarranted air-time to Cheryl Cole, whose march towards blanket coverage on all UK networks gathers yet more pace. Quite what the nation's obsession with this pointless individual is will I suspect remain beyond me until they dig me a hole to rest in. Perhaps people feel sorry for her because Gobshite Ashley did the dirty on her. Maybe they like that she now enjoys the noble duty of promoting the next generation of pop-stars on X Factor. It simply can't be the singing, all of which is deathly dull and mostly done by her mates in any case. And don't get me started on the equally tiresome Sarah Harding.
The Pet Shop Boys were there to pick up the award for lifetime achievement, and as is tradition to close the show with a set of their best music. We all saw that coming. What was less obvious was the reason why Chris Lowe (the one who never speaks, moves, sings or dances) played out the entire performance in a pink wig. It put me in mind of a Coronation Street character from my youth named Phyllis Pearce. Phyllis had a voice which sounded like it was being impaired by a throat-full of sand and mud, aswell as a bizarre but touching devotion to local busy-body and all round pain in the Harding Percy Sugden.
I can't see Lowe having the foresight to pay comic tribute to a soap star of yore, so there must have been more to it. Pink is a colour often associated with cancer charities, and particularly those which affect women. I can only hope that this was some sort of show of solidarity or effort to raise awareness to the cause. If so it is highly commendable and I am willing to forgive him and Neil Tennant for playing a large video of themselves in the background to their entire performance. Were they singing live or not, then? Who knows, but if Tennant can't talk about knocking down chairs in a restaurant without the aid of a pre-recorded soundtrack then perhaps he might like to think about returning his award.
Cole (sorry, we're back on her momentarily) told us that her earlier award had been the 'cherry on the cake'. She was wrong. The aforementioned fruit on the gateaux was the appearance of Killers front-man Brandon Flowers alongside the PSB's. PSB's? Makes them sound a little too much like a bank though it would surprise nobody if either Tennant or Lowe decided to take their careers in that direction. In any event, Flowers' contribution to the set was infinitely more successful than Estelle's earlier Ting-Tings Thing Thing, or at least it would have been had both Tennant and Lowe not looked faintly embarrassed throughout. Joining in was a scantily-clad blonde woman who I am sure I am supposed to recognise but don't, and whose aim was to produce a reasonable stab at the Dusty Springfield role in 'What Have I Done To Deserve This?'.
Which, aptly enough, was exactly what I was asking myself as the credits rolled.
By Stephen Orford
18 February 2009
Friday, 13 February 2009
Jade
I don't like Big Brother. No. I hate it. In my view it reaches depths of pointlessness previously unknown. What is there to like about a bunch of no-name morons jabbering away about their inconsequential little lives? I have an inconsequential life of my own to jabber on about, thanks all the same.
However, much as I loathe the thing that has become known as BB, and all of it's bastard spawn reality shows, it has rather raised a serious issue in recent months.
You don't have to spend your Friday evenings in front of the television waiting for Davina to tell you who has been evicted to know that one former Big Brother participant, Jade Goody, is suffering from an aggressive form of cervical cancer. Tragically, the prognosis for Jade is extremely grim. From giving her a 40% chance of survival doctors have now had to inform her that her disease has spread to her liver and elsewhere, giving her only a miniscule chance of living to tell the tale.
Yet however much of that tale Jade will be able to relay to us is currently in the process of being captured entirely on film. Despite being stricken with this awful disease, Jade continues to allow and indeed encourage camera crews to follow her every move in her latest reality series. I'm afraid I don't know the name of it. It's not the issue.
The issue is whether or not this is morally correct. Is such a harrowing fight for life suitable viewing for an increasingly voyeuristic public? At what point do we draw the line and say 'no more'? Let this woman deal with her diabolical circumstances in private. She is a 27-year-old woman, about to be struck down less than a third into what would have been her natural life. She is also a mother. A more devastating set of circumstances is difficult to envisage, and yet here we are peering through the window at her in anticipation of well........goodness knows what.
You can't blame Jade. She might be annoying, crass, less than intelligent and a generally undeserved television star. Yet she is equally underserving of such a depressing fate. Her quest to get one final pay day to make sure that her children are looked after when she is gone is arguably the likely response of any young mother placed in that situation. No. The media are to blame for this vulgar peep show. Though Jade does little to discourage them, the television executives and producers should feel shame at even conceiving of the idea to put her plight so brightly in the spotlight.
In short, we should not know anything about this. Jade, may she be blessed by whatever sick power is up there, should not be famous. Famous people sing, dance, act, make people laugh, perform feats of sporting excellence. They do not sit on a sofa giggling inanely and rabbiting on constantly about themselves. Having made the mistake of thrusting Jade into the public eye without good reason, the money-mad television people are simply compounding that error by following the poor girl through what looks to be her final ordeal.
If any good is to come of this sorry episode it could well be in the response of young women who can relate to Jade. If even one young girl decides to go for a potentially life-saving smear test because of seeing Jade on the television then perhaps we should feel thankful. Yet do not let those responsible for her fly on the wall account of battling cancer take any plaudits should that happen. This is not the way forward. We must use the education system and other approaches to broadcasting to get the message across about how important an issue this is. We should not have to witness the apalling demise of a young woman at such close quarters in order to raise awareness and save lives in the future.
For all the negatives in this piece about Jade I should like to point out that I hope with every inch of my being that she defies the odds and wins her fight. Seeing her make a full recovery would inspire me and thrill me in equal measure. At that point she can make all the reality television she likes and good luck to her.
Just don't expect me to watch.
By Stephen Orford
However, much as I loathe the thing that has become known as BB, and all of it's bastard spawn reality shows, it has rather raised a serious issue in recent months.
You don't have to spend your Friday evenings in front of the television waiting for Davina to tell you who has been evicted to know that one former Big Brother participant, Jade Goody, is suffering from an aggressive form of cervical cancer. Tragically, the prognosis for Jade is extremely grim. From giving her a 40% chance of survival doctors have now had to inform her that her disease has spread to her liver and elsewhere, giving her only a miniscule chance of living to tell the tale.
Yet however much of that tale Jade will be able to relay to us is currently in the process of being captured entirely on film. Despite being stricken with this awful disease, Jade continues to allow and indeed encourage camera crews to follow her every move in her latest reality series. I'm afraid I don't know the name of it. It's not the issue.
The issue is whether or not this is morally correct. Is such a harrowing fight for life suitable viewing for an increasingly voyeuristic public? At what point do we draw the line and say 'no more'? Let this woman deal with her diabolical circumstances in private. She is a 27-year-old woman, about to be struck down less than a third into what would have been her natural life. She is also a mother. A more devastating set of circumstances is difficult to envisage, and yet here we are peering through the window at her in anticipation of well........goodness knows what.
You can't blame Jade. She might be annoying, crass, less than intelligent and a generally undeserved television star. Yet she is equally underserving of such a depressing fate. Her quest to get one final pay day to make sure that her children are looked after when she is gone is arguably the likely response of any young mother placed in that situation. No. The media are to blame for this vulgar peep show. Though Jade does little to discourage them, the television executives and producers should feel shame at even conceiving of the idea to put her plight so brightly in the spotlight.
In short, we should not know anything about this. Jade, may she be blessed by whatever sick power is up there, should not be famous. Famous people sing, dance, act, make people laugh, perform feats of sporting excellence. They do not sit on a sofa giggling inanely and rabbiting on constantly about themselves. Having made the mistake of thrusting Jade into the public eye without good reason, the money-mad television people are simply compounding that error by following the poor girl through what looks to be her final ordeal.
If any good is to come of this sorry episode it could well be in the response of young women who can relate to Jade. If even one young girl decides to go for a potentially life-saving smear test because of seeing Jade on the television then perhaps we should feel thankful. Yet do not let those responsible for her fly on the wall account of battling cancer take any plaudits should that happen. This is not the way forward. We must use the education system and other approaches to broadcasting to get the message across about how important an issue this is. We should not have to witness the apalling demise of a young woman at such close quarters in order to raise awareness and save lives in the future.
For all the negatives in this piece about Jade I should like to point out that I hope with every inch of my being that she defies the odds and wins her fight. Seeing her make a full recovery would inspire me and thrill me in equal measure. At that point she can make all the reality television she likes and good luck to her.
Just don't expect me to watch.
By Stephen Orford
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
The Wii Experience
Now some people might say that at 33 I am a little old for computer games. They can go fuck themselves. Alternatively they might like to review their ageist stereotpyical views on what is and is not a fit source of entertainment for the modern adult.
Emma and I bought a Wii about five or six months ago. For those of you still trying to work out how to switch on your Acorn Electron let me explain that the Wii is unlike any of it's predecessors in the gaming market. That is because rather than sitting motionless and getting sore thumbs from some joypad/joystick contraption in an effort to control the game, the Wii demands that you get a bit more active. If you are playing tennis you swing the remote like you would swing a tennis racket. If it's golf you swing it like you would swing a golf club. If it is swinging, you just swing. I haven't got that game yet.
What I do have is an unhealthy addiction to this new, fandangled piece of kit. On your average Saturday morning I can be found in front of the television in a state of rigid concentration, convinced that I am in fact Tiger Woods. It is rare for Tiger Woods to finish outside the top 100 in tournaments that even I had not heard of in the pre-Wii days, yet this does not deter me from my mission. Nor in fact does inexplicably missing a put from less than a metre away because the console has decided that it doesn't like you. Or because the grass on the greens at New England is a little longer than that at St.Andrews so that the ball is more likely to stick and you have to therefore hit it a little harder. But then if you hit it harder it bounces out of the hole like a space hopper launched at a pot-hole from 500 metres.
All very frustrating so I turned to Wii darts. You have shrewdly guessed what is coming next, which is that you use the Wii remote in a throwing motion not dissimilar to that applied to throwing a dart. The main difference appears to be that normally your average dart thrower can be relied upon to release said dart at some point. The Wii dart player can expect to effect four or five dart-throwing motions before the flighty fettler finally agrees to part company with your dart players hand. Timing is everything, which is perhaps why I lost a best of 21 legs match by a score of 11-0, that after losing a best of five-set match by only 3 sets to 2. To suggest that PDC Darts on the Wii is temperemental is a little like suggesting that Justin Lee Collins is annoying. It's kind of a given.
And so to the most befuddling thing about Wii games. They hurt. And yet I play on regardless. Emma is a few degrees warmer than me in the brain department it seems, because she has refrained from participating in games where pulled muscles are the norm such as Wii boxing, whereas I continue regardless. Over seven rounds against such mighty Wii animated opponents as Kevin, Keith and Simon, I managed to all but lose the use of my right arm entirely. The refusal to lie down and die of Kevin and company leads to a breathless and seemingly endless frenzy of right jabs aimed at the general direction of the television set. And all of this performed in the centre of my living room with the passing world able to access a full and unrestricted view of my bizarre antics. It reminds me of when the two girls who live opposite my mother used to dance in the top bedroom window. But we won't go into that.
Sooner or later I will become the greatest Wii golfer/tennis player/boxer/dart player/Asterix at the Olympics player but at what cost? Any more of this manic Wii-ing and I will be admitted to the emergency room before you can say 'Communication with the Wii remote has been suspended, press any button when connection is re-established'.
That means you need to charge the batteries, by the way.
Stephen Orford
11 February 2009
Emma and I bought a Wii about five or six months ago. For those of you still trying to work out how to switch on your Acorn Electron let me explain that the Wii is unlike any of it's predecessors in the gaming market. That is because rather than sitting motionless and getting sore thumbs from some joypad/joystick contraption in an effort to control the game, the Wii demands that you get a bit more active. If you are playing tennis you swing the remote like you would swing a tennis racket. If it's golf you swing it like you would swing a golf club. If it is swinging, you just swing. I haven't got that game yet.
What I do have is an unhealthy addiction to this new, fandangled piece of kit. On your average Saturday morning I can be found in front of the television in a state of rigid concentration, convinced that I am in fact Tiger Woods. It is rare for Tiger Woods to finish outside the top 100 in tournaments that even I had not heard of in the pre-Wii days, yet this does not deter me from my mission. Nor in fact does inexplicably missing a put from less than a metre away because the console has decided that it doesn't like you. Or because the grass on the greens at New England is a little longer than that at St.Andrews so that the ball is more likely to stick and you have to therefore hit it a little harder. But then if you hit it harder it bounces out of the hole like a space hopper launched at a pot-hole from 500 metres.
All very frustrating so I turned to Wii darts. You have shrewdly guessed what is coming next, which is that you use the Wii remote in a throwing motion not dissimilar to that applied to throwing a dart. The main difference appears to be that normally your average dart thrower can be relied upon to release said dart at some point. The Wii dart player can expect to effect four or five dart-throwing motions before the flighty fettler finally agrees to part company with your dart players hand. Timing is everything, which is perhaps why I lost a best of 21 legs match by a score of 11-0, that after losing a best of five-set match by only 3 sets to 2. To suggest that PDC Darts on the Wii is temperemental is a little like suggesting that Justin Lee Collins is annoying. It's kind of a given.
And so to the most befuddling thing about Wii games. They hurt. And yet I play on regardless. Emma is a few degrees warmer than me in the brain department it seems, because she has refrained from participating in games where pulled muscles are the norm such as Wii boxing, whereas I continue regardless. Over seven rounds against such mighty Wii animated opponents as Kevin, Keith and Simon, I managed to all but lose the use of my right arm entirely. The refusal to lie down and die of Kevin and company leads to a breathless and seemingly endless frenzy of right jabs aimed at the general direction of the television set. And all of this performed in the centre of my living room with the passing world able to access a full and unrestricted view of my bizarre antics. It reminds me of when the two girls who live opposite my mother used to dance in the top bedroom window. But we won't go into that.
Sooner or later I will become the greatest Wii golfer/tennis player/boxer/dart player/Asterix at the Olympics player but at what cost? Any more of this manic Wii-ing and I will be admitted to the emergency room before you can say 'Communication with the Wii remote has been suspended, press any button when connection is re-established'.
That means you need to charge the batteries, by the way.
Stephen Orford
11 February 2009
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